Our Neck of the Woods
by Sookie Starchild
Summary: Emissaries from five stories outside the reach of Regina's curse embark on a dangerous mission to stop the witch responsible - provided they can remember what they're supposed to do. Storybrooke is funny that way. ABANDONED.
1. The Travelers at the Edge of Darkness

_Once Upon A Time_

_A kingdom built on mountain high_

_Lifted its turrets flecked with gold_

_Into a sapphire sky_

_Land of Enchantment, this domain_

_But ruled by a Queen - -_

_Black hearted and vain…_

- Walt Disney, **Snow White**, 1937

* * *

><p>A strange group of ten travellers stood on a narrow patch of grass, shoulder by shoulder like tin soldiers in a line, looking at the ominous state of the Enchanted Forest.<p>

Behind them were the tall and craggy cliffs that fell sharply into the dark ocean, crashing white crested waves upon the rocks. The sky was an unfriendly shade of grey, and a sharp breeze from the waters chilled each of them through to their bones. Before them was a deep and unsettling darkness, that fell over the land and dyed it blacker than a moonless night.

The edge of this darkness stood before them as smooth and undeniable as a marble wall, and they themselves all stood as far back from it as they could manage. Some of them might have dared closer, being no strangers to bravery or recklessness, but the darkness had a nasty habit of snapping with slender bolts of green lightning every now and then.

"The Enchanted Forest has been crushed underneath a giant's shadow," The Eternal Boy declared, and crossed his arms on his chest, "It's very sad, but there's nothing we can do about it. Maybe the giant will come back for his shadow - since it's very difficult to live without one - and then the people inside might be saved. But it seems to be none of my own business, nor the business of my men."

The boy was tall and lean for his age, with a sharp freckled face and mischief in his eyes. He wore a jerkin and shoes made of thick leaves, as tough and supple as leather, and an iron sword hung in a scabbard at his hip. Beside him, a tiny orb of pale light hovered at his ear. In its centre was a lady of extraordinary loveliness and disagreeable temperament, who was known to indulge the boy under most circumstances. And likely she would have stated her agreement in her silver-bell voice and left along with him, were it not for the fact that most of her kin lived within the Fairy Realms of the Enchanted Forest. When he noticed her silence, the boy turned to her with a puzzled expression.

She simply shook her head, and in doing so, caused her light to flicker a bit.

"What a terrible shame!" Cried the little White Rabbit, who stood at the far end of the line, "I shall have to tell the Queen. She has always liked the stories of this place, and now she's sure to have someone's head for this! Oh dear! I only hope that it won't be mine!"

"Why should she have your head?" Asked the Lion who stood on the other furthest end, "You're only a very small creature, and could do nothing against a problem so large…"

"That's hardly the point!" The rabbit replied, "Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear! All the Enchanted Forest crushed! Think of the trouble I'll be in!"

"Hardly seems fair." The Lion mumbled, shaking his large head and soft golden mane.

"All discussions of tyranny aside," said the Man in Black, who stood on the boy's side opposite the fairy, "Whatever this strange blight is, it is _not_ a giant's shadow. In the slightest."

He was a dashing figure, with a wave of blond hair and a thin moustache. He wore leather gauntlets and boots, a loose shirt and pants that were all, as suggested, a very deep black. The others were not at all certain what to make of him, since it was rare to see a man of Florin so far from home.

"How would you know?" The Eternal Boy scoffed at him angrily, "I happen to be an expert on the subject of shadows! And they are very tricky, deceitful things!"

"Ah," The Man in Black replied, "But I happen to be an expert on the subject of giants - been friends with one for years - and I can tell you, for a fact, that a giant's shadow could never be this geographically dominant. Nor could it crackle with unnatural lightning."

"Why should anybody trust you?" The boy demanded, "You look to be a pirate."

"And if I am, or have been one?"

"Then I'll cut you up into bits and feed you to the Crocodile!" With that the boy drew his sword and pointed the tip at the Man in Black's heart.

There was a flash of steel, and a loud clatter. The iron sword flew from the boy's hand and landed on the grass with a thud. A rapier rested almost languidly in the Man in Black's left hand, as though it had always been there.

"Whatever pirates you've fought before were certainly not as skilled as I am," Said the man to the boy, speaking quickly in chastising tones, "So unless you care to discover what life is like with only one ear, I suggest you learn to mind your elders."

It was while this was happening that the snake came to his senses. He had thus far been listening only half-heartedly, for he had been wondering if he would get into trouble with the others if he ate the White Rabbit. He was a very large snake, being thirty feet long, and the journey from his homeland to this highly unpleasant place had been too much for him. He was hungry. But the rabbit was wearing a waistcoat, and had a small golden watch; and though the others might not begrudge him a snack of a normal rabbit, they might not approve of his eating anything that dressed like a man. Besides which, the cold winds made him sluggish and he probably would not have been able to strike quickly enough. So his mind turned to the matters that were more urgently at hand.

"Crocodile?" He said softly to his companion, "What is this talk of a crocodile?"

Next to him, the panther narrowed his gold-green eyes, and twitched his whiskers, and said in a voice as soft as wild honey:

"They are merely fools. They talk of things that are not here, and challenge one another without reason. It is the way of Man."

"Shall I eat the large one?" The snake slowly rolled his head until he was facing the Man in Black's back.

"Later, if thou must," The panther replied, "But for now we must concentrate on this… nightfall."

"Ah! If only Mang the Bat had not been so fearful of the journey! We might know better what is within!"

"What troubles me is not what is within, brother, but that the condition does not spread without. I smell upon it that it is most definitely the doing of Magic, and it may be a sickness of some kind," Said the panther, "Go towards the edge with me, but watch thyself, and we shall see if there is more to know."

As the Man in Black and the Eternal Boy continued their bickering, the panther and the snake slowly crept and slithered towards the very edge of the anomaly. Unwinding his thick coils, the snake was almost long enough to lie across the whole of the strange border. The muscles in his stomach, which were tuned to feel the slightest vibrations of the ground around him, felt a strange rhythmic pulsing. Like the hearts of a thousand sleeping creatures beating as one.

The girl from the Patchwork Lands, standing with the Lion, the Scarecrow and the Tin Woodsman, watched the creatures with curious eyes.

"Please stop fighting!" The Scarecrow was begging of the boy and the man, as the argument raged on. The boy had agreed to a truce, but when the man had lowered his sword, he kicked him in the shin.

"Is it… a storm?" The Tin Woodsman asked. He was used to the sometimes unnatural darkness that fell upon the woodlands throughout the world, and had always presumed the Enchanted Forest to be prone to strange and heavy shadows. But this was unlike anything he was expecting.

"No, I don't think so," The girl shook her head, "It looks like the dark clouds that used to appear sometimes above the Winkie Country."

She was a young woman of nearly twenty, with brown hair and softly pretty features. She wore a blue and white dress, and on her feet was a pair of shining silver shoes. She had been so quiet when her party arrived that the others hardly noticed her among the three more colourful members of her group. Looking at the tremendous darkness before her was making her feel uneasy, because in her heart she'd known what it was since she'd first looked upon it. The only thing it could be. But it was so horrible, it seemed impossible.

"No," The Tin Woodsman shook his head, "There isn't a witch who could make such a curse. It's too big."

"You think all of this is _one_ curse?" The Lion balked, "Oh no! No, no. Let's go back to the boat, because… this is… if it's true I don't want to meet the witch responsible! It would have to be a very, very wicked witch! And the wicked ones always hate us!"

"Yes, but if it's spreading we have to fight it now. Before it gets any bigger."

The Lion let out a tremendous, mournful roar that caused all eyes to fall on him.

"Whatever is the matter?" The Scarecrow asked, his attention pulled back from the argument.

"It's likely a witch's curse," The Tin Woodsman said, nodding towards the anomaly, "Lion's upset, because he thinks we'll have to fight the witch responsible."

"Oh." The Scarecrow nodded, "But a curse of this size? I've never heard of witch so powerful, so wicked, or so deeply lost in spirit."

"There's nothing else it could be." The girl said sadly.

"A witch's curse?" The Eternal Boy stuck his tongue out merrily, "Is that all it is? Then it's no trouble of mine."

"Unless it spreads to the Neverlands." The girl told him, and the smile fell away from his face at once.

"How far could it reach, if it were to spread?" The Man in Black asked, "And what exactly is this curse doing to the people caught inside of it?"

While the girl was giving her theories to the man, the panther sauntered over to the Lion and began speaking to him in the language of cats:

"Troubles, brother?"

"Many." The Lion replied glumly, "What do you and the snake see that I cannot?"

"The snake sees little - he has poor eyesight - but he tells me that there is life within the darkness, and that the darkness will soon grow outward. But the eyes of the night are my own. And within, I see the shapes of the huts with peaked roofs but no movement. These winds that strike upon thy back and tousle thy mane do not rustle the trees with in, nor stir the grass upon the shadowed ground. Life is there, tells the snake; but no life, tell my senses."

"That is the nature of all magic. To be and not be many things at once. I will tell my Friend what you have said, and she may know something more." The Lion nodded.

The panther kept his disapproval at the Lion's tamed nature to himself while he waited, since it wouldn't do him any good to pick a fight just then. But he didn't care for it in the least.

"Goodness!" The girl gasped once the Lion had brought her up to speed, "Then it must be stopped before it gets further than the Enchanted Forest! Does the snake know how quickly it's growing?"

"I could ask." The Lion nodded, and went about having another conversation with the panther.

"It almost doesn't matter," The Scarecrow said mournfully, "If we can't stop it, sooner or later we'll all be caught inside of it."

The fairy light bobbed up and down frantically, and rang with equal fervour. Nobody could understand what she was saying except the Eternal Boy, who translated for her:

"Would somebody be safe in the sky?"

"I doubt it," The Scarecrow shook his head, "I can't see the top of the shadow at all - I think it goes well above the clouds."

"Oh dear!" Cried the rabbit, "What awful, awful news I shall have to report! Is there anything to be done?"

"Yes," Said the Man in Black, turning to the girl, "You seemed surprisingly well-versed on this subject. Can we destroy it?"

"All curses can be broken," The girl said thoughtfully, "But with one this large, I'm afraid we might have no choice but to kill the witch responsible. And she will be at it's center."

"And to kill her?" The Man in Black asked.

"Every witch has a weakness," The Tin Woodsman supplied, "Some are easier to find than others."

"It grows slightly with each heartbeat inside of it," The Lion announced suddenly, having been unaware of the conversation that had come about while he conversed with the panther, "The snake believes that we have until the end of the day before there is no more room to stand on this cliff."

"How terrible," The rabbit said, "Now I shall have to tell the queen we are doomed as well. Look well upon my head, new friends, for this will be the last time you see it attached to a rabbit."

"Poor little rabbit…" The Lion said sympathetically.

"I have no choice but to go inside and kill the witch," The girl announced, "Please excuse me. I'll certainly try to be as quick as possible."

"That is a very admirable ambition, however…" The Man in Black began, as tactfully as he could.

"You're not strong enough!" The Eternal Boy ruined it, "You don't even have a sword."

"It would be foolish of you, out of all of us, to go alone." The man tried to undo the damage.

"I have experience with witches, and I have an enchanted mark upon my forehead and these slippers. Both of which will be much more valuable than your swords, and may even protect me from being affected by the curse." The girl informed them.

"You also have a Tin Woodsman, a Lion, and a Scarecrow." The Tin Woodsman said.

"Yes, but you can't come with me," She said, smiling sadly at her friends, "You must return home, to warn them of the curse in case I fail, and to help them prepare in case I take too long. They look to you as symbols, and they will need your strength, your wisdom and your courage to see them through. And I will not tolerate any argument on the subject. Besides, one of you must look after Toto - he loves you all so very much, and he won't understand what has happened to me."

She kissed the Tin Woodsman's cold cheek, and hugged the Scarecrow's straw body, petted the Lion's golden mane, and then turned towards the darkness.

"This is ridiculous," The Man in Black observed, "You're going to let her go in there, by herself, to fight something so powerful that we're not even certain how to destroy it? One of you is a lion. Lions maul things to death by necessity."

"I am a very cowardly Lion…" The Lion remorsefully informed him.

"She's right about the three of us being needed in our Realm," The Scarecrow tried to explain, "And she really is the only one among us who could destroy a witch alone. We are sad to leave her, but there's no other choice for us."

"I'll go, too." The Eternal Boy decided, and his fairy made a sudden burst of noise, "And Tink as well. Both of us will help."

"I'm not sure if that's a very good idea." The girl shook her head.

"I'm going to go into that curse and I shall kill that witch, and all the Enchanted Forest will remember the name Pan," The boy said with grim determination, "And if I go in with you, or if I go in without you isn't at all important to me."

The girl saw on his face that there would be no talking him out of it, and she knew that at the very least he would be much safer if he stayed near to her and her shoes. So she reluctantly nodded at him, and he made his way over to stand with her.

She took his hand gently, in the way an older sister would, and the three of them - boy, fairy and girl - were about to step into the darkness, when the Man in Black called out:

"Wait!"

The girl looked at him over her shoulder.

"Yes?"

"Damn it. _Damn_," He shook his head, "I wouldn't be able to live with myself if you perish on your quest, knowing that I could have done something to prevent the curse from consuming the world. Listen, I am a very accomplished fellow. A man of action. What little aid I can lend in this matter, I offer to you. I wish to come along, but first I need a word with your Scarecrow."

"If it's alright with him." The girl replied, slightly bewildered. The Scarecrow nodded, looking equally confused by the sudden turn of events.

"Scarecrow," The Man in Black said, taking him by the shoulder and leading him a little ways from the group, "I ask you to go to the ship with the black sails at the bottom of the cliffs. There you will find a dark haired man who is calling himself Roberts. Tell him all that has happened here, and to move the ship as fast and far as she will allow in these waters; whatever direction the wind will take him in. Then ask to speak with a lady…"

He moved the conversation far away enough that no one else could hear the rest of his instructions. He looked to be sorting his words out very carefully, and the Scarecrow was smiling and nodding as he committed them to his capable memory.

"What is happening?" The panther asked the Lion.

"Dorothy is going into the darkness, and the boy and the little creature in the light are going with her. So is the pirate, but he needs to tell the Scarecrow something important first. They must kill the witch in order to stop the darkness from stretching over all the world."

"And? Thou shall not go alongside them, and tear at the witch with thy claws? Few finer hunters are there than we, my brother…"

"True, but I do not know if I have the power to kill this witch, and I am needed in the Patchwork Lands."

"I see," The panther said, thinking that the place the Lion spoke of must be where they kept his collar and cage, "Then I shall go, and guide them with my keener senses, for it is in the interests of all that this witch be done with. I do not trust these Men to do so, for they may find sympathy for their kind once within. Nor do I have faith that they could find their way in such heavy nightfall without eyes such as mine, being weak of vision as well as purpose."

"I would be grateful if you could keep them from harm." The Lion requested humbly, bowing his head. He was not as the panther had ever suspected a lion would be, but then he quickly reminded himself that this one had been tamed and weakened. He nodded, and walked to where the snake rested in his coil.

"Kaa," He said, "We go to slay they who cause the darkness, so that they do not destroy all within the Jungle. Come."

"I cannot," The snake replied, "I grow weaker here from the cold, and need to return to where there is sun and warmth or I shall die. Perhaps I will sneak aboard a ship and eat those who will not be missed… Which passes closest to home?"

"Wait here." The panther said, and returned to speak to the Lion once more.

Beneath him, the snake could feel the pulsing of the heartbeats grow louder, and he began to fear it.

"Go along with this lion, brother. He shall take thee on his ship, feed thee meat and return thee to our Jungle. Do not eat any of those aboard, or thou will be cast into the cold waters to freeze to death. The lion speaks no tongue but that of the cats, and he will not hear thy justifications any more than a Man might."

"I thank thee for making arrangements on my behalf, Bagheera. Endeavour not to be destroyed within the nightfall."

"I shall." The panther said, and soundlessly took his place beside the girl and the boy.

"Is the panther coming?" The Man in Black asked, walking back from his chat with the Scarecrow, "Wonderful."

"Wait! Wait!" The White Rabbit called, bounding up to stand alongside them, "I wish to come and see if there is anything to be reported to my Queen. Perhaps I shall find good news inside and prevent my own beheading before she even tells the executioner!"

"Fine." The girl sighed, at this point realizing that she was never going to be one destined to face danger alone, and that there was probably no talking anyone out of coming along if they weren't the kind of people who listened to sense.

"Ride upon my back, little one," The panther said to the rabbit, "You will not slow us down so much."

"I… ahem… that is…" The rabbit stammered, "I'm fine on this side. Thank you ever so much for the offer. I'm fairly quick."

"Very well."

With a deep and determined breath, the girl stepped into the curse.

The others followed immediately.

* * *

><p><em>AN: This is the first writing I've done in awhile, and I'm pretty nervous. It's also the longest story I've worked on so far. For those of you who might be wondering, it runs along the same timeline as the series, and it's supposed to be more of a companion piece to the show than anything else._

_Expect upcoming cameo appearances from pretty much everybody (yes, of course Mr. Gold, fangirlies,) and tons of episode references and tie-ins. I know it can be hard to get involved in an OC-focused story, so thank you very much for making it this far; I hope you enjoyed this chapter enough to keep reading more._

_And remember, good witches and sassy fairies always leave reviews! ^_^_


	2. Folks in Maine

In the town of Storybrooke, a house with green siding stood in a garden of overgrown trees, with a gravel driveway leading to stone steps and a walnut front door. It was in a short block of houses that seemed to be built a little apart from the rest of the town, just on the edge of the forest. From the highest window on the second floor, the view was mostly of trees and the top of the hospital. Two of the houses, one the colour of a faded red barn and the other made of very modern-looking glass, couldn't even be accessed by the road. You couldn't see them from the green house at all, unless you were sitting in the enormous tree house in the backyard and you knew _exactly_ where to look.

It was Monday morning, so an expensive black car pulled into the driveway, and a man in a tailor-made suit walked up to ring the doorbell. He was very athletic and very graceful, with jet black hair and skin that was nearly as dark. There was something solidly handsome about him, and a softness around his nose and mouth. But the softness certainly didn't reach as far as his eyes - they were sharp, and a strange pale colour, and they always seemed to make other people just a little bit nervous. Particularly whenever they went narrow with distaste. Which was often.

The doorbell rang, but nobody answered.

The man in the suit rolled his eyes, and rang the bell again. It didn't do any good.

He made a sound, low in his throat, that was something between a disgruntled sigh and a growl; and he pounded loudly on the door. When that didn't work, he tried turning the knob. Finding it unlocked, he roughly pulled the front door open with such force that the hinges let out a high-pitched squeak.

He stormed into the house and loudly called out:

"Ada! Ada, get down here!"

There was a rustle of activity upstairs, a loud thud, and then a woman in a short kimono-style bathrobe appeared at the top of the stairs. She had silky blonde hair with blunt cut bangs, which she typically wore in a ballerina style bun, but was now falling over her shoulders. Mascara was smudged around her bright blue eyes, but her face was still outstandingly pretty. There was a glow about her, the extraordinary aura you might expect to encounter with a supermodel or famous actress. She also looked a little like she was going to throw-up.

"What the hell are you doing, Govinda?" She asked in a tired, dry voice.

"It's seven-thirty." He said, tapping an unexpectedly cheap watch.

"So? It's the weekend…"

"It's _Monday_, Ada. _Monday_."

"Oh, shit!" Ada groaned, hurrying down the stairs as she hurried down the stairs, narrowly avoiding an old-fashioned wooden roller skate and a super-ball. She whipped around the corner of the staircase, heading through the hallway towards the backdoor.

"Where are you going?" Govinda demanded.

"The yard. He's still sleeping in the tree house." She didn't even put on shoes as she walked out onto the cold wet grass, and came to a stop beneath the centuries-old tree that the house had been built into. It was set back slightly into the timberline, so that the branches of the other trees grew right above the peaked roof. It was a boy's dream come true, and Govinda knew that inside were all manner of toys and unexpected luxuries. Including a small generator that powered a lamp and a mini-fridge.

"Is he even close to ready?"

"We'll find out, won't we?" Ada replied breezily, then called up to the tree house: "Mason! Your ride's here! It's time for school!"

"Okay!" A confident young voice called back.

A rope ladder was thrown over the side of the trap-door entrance, and soon a pair of small feet in shiny black shoes followed.

"See? He's ready." Ada smiled, as though she knew it would work out all along. Govinda flashed her his trademark expression of annoyance.

Mason was quick enough to come down, dressed in his school uniform with the white shirt un-tucked and his tie crooked and sloppy. Despite his scruffiness, he looked happy, clean and well-rested, and he smiled at Ada with a truly boyish grin.

"Where's your book bag?" Govinda asked, and Mason shrugged and made a face like he didn't care.

"It's in the house." Ada said, leading the way back inside. She hurried towards the living room, where a large stack of drawings and art supplies had taken over the table. Most of the drawings were of fights between a group of little boys and various enemies. They were all very colourful, and quite well-executed.

"Did you eat breakfast?" Govinda asked Mason, as they waited by the front door.

"I had half a Dr. Pepper and some dry Froot Loops, so it's all good."

"That's hardly nutritious."

"You're _face_ is hardly nutritious."

"That doesn't even make sense…"

"Alright," Ada smiled, carrying a worn out grey satchel and handing it to Mason, "Here you go. Have a nice day."

She ruffled his hair, and he gave her a pleading look.

"I don't want to go." He whispered.

"I know," She whispered back, "But you have to. And later, when you come home, we can shoot arrows at targets. And we'll have ice cream for dinner, and cheesy macaroni for dessert."

"Real arrows? Not the ones with suction cups?"

"Of course."

"Okay, I guess." Mason hung his head glumly, and headed out the front door.

"We'll talk about this later." Govinda said to Ada, in stern and unforgiving tones.

"Oh, I'm sure we will." She replied, and stood waiting on the front steps as they got into the car and pulled away.

The interior of the fancy black car always made Mason want to ruin it. With its smooth wood finishes, and the soft grey leather. He wasn't allowed to eat or drink in it, ever. So he'd cooked up a plan to get a blue slushie from the convenience store on a hot day. Sometimes, when the sun was really hot, Govinda parked his car with the windows a little bit open. Mason would take a stick, and press the button inside to roll the window down all the way, then he'd reach in and pour slushie all over the seats. One of the big ones, with the jumbo straw. And maybe he'd stick a wad of chewed up gum on the back of the steering wheel.

"School is important," Govinda was saying, "You understand that, right? You get it?"

"No," Mason scoffed, "I don't care about math and what day of what year some stupid dead guy died. All of it's dumb stuff nobody needs."

"Mason, you have to learn about society's rules and expectations. Otherwise you'll be eaten by a bear, and I'll be too ashamed to go to your funeral." This was something that Govinda said to the boy with some frequency.

Mason wasn't sure where the heart of the sentiment came from. After all, it wasn't like Storybrooke was full of daily reports of children who got mauled by bears. And he wasn't clear on what society's expectations were going to do to protect him from a potential bear attack, should he find himself in that situation. But he went ahead and nodded wisely, since to challenge the saying in any way was to guarantee yourself a long-winded conversation that made no sense.

"Look, I know it's not easy for you," Govinda was going on, "But you have to make an effort. And you're lucky, Miss Blanchard is a very kind teacher. Excessively kind. To the point where I'm not even sure you children are learning anything of substance…"

"Uh-huh. She's okay, I guess."

"What kind of lesson plan includes a 'morning meeting' where the pupils discuss their feelings? What kind of hippie thing is that? She should use that time to teach you French, or Morse Code, or flag signalling. Something for an emergency. First aid, maybe. I don't know."

"How is French for an emergency?"

Before Govinda had a chance to answer - and it would have been a very thorough and confusing answer indeed - a white Volkswagen Rabbit pulled out from a narrow driveway that was obscured by stray branches. It happened so quickly, Govinda didn't have time to brake, and smashed into the other car's front passenger side.

"Oh fuck!" He cried loudly, forgetting for a second that Mason was in the car with him. He was soon reminded when an uproarious burst of giggles overtook the boy, "Stay here. And I don't want to hear any more of that laughing, do you understand?"

Govinda got out of his car, and hurried over to the driver's side of the VW. A short, pudgy man in a tan delivery service uniform was gripping the wheel so tightly, his knuckles were white. He was looking straight ahead with eyes so wide and horrified, Govinda worried for a moment that the man had died of a heart attack.

"Whitaker, are you alright?" He asked.

Witaker Lapin slowly turned his head to look at Govinda. He opened his mouth as though he was going to say something, but no sounds came out.

"You're fine," Govinda suggested, "Everything's okay. Listen, this was completely my fault. And I am very sorry, but I've got Mason in the car and I need to drop him off at school. So if you could please back your vehicle up, I'll go on through. You can give me a call this afternoon or whenever it's convenient, and we'll get the details squared away…"

Whitaker didn't say anything, he just continued to look horrified.

"Alright…" Govinda said with growing uncertainty, "So… just go ahead and start your car."

Nothing.

"Just turn the key, and start your car."

Whitaker nodded, his zombified expression refusing to transform into any signs of awareness or even non-panic. In his head, repeating over and over, was the sentiment of knowing all along that one day Govinda would kill him. He didn't know where this fear originated, but he knew it to be a good and true fear.

He turned the ignition, but the car refused to cooperate. Govinda's shiny black luxury sedan had terminally smashed its guts.

"It's not going to go." Whitaker announced, quivering. He looked like he might cry.

"Alright," Govinda nodded, and looked over at his car while he came up with a plan, "I'll just have to go around you."

He patted the severely dented hood of the Rabbit, and got back into his own car.

"Is Mr. Lapin dead?" Mason asked.

"Yes. That's why we're driving away. Because a man is dead."

As soon as the sinister black car was out of sight, Whitaker Lapin slowly undid his seatbelt, and got out to look at the damage to his vehicle. It was pretty bad.

It was also the last thing he needed to see that morning, since his boss had told him that he absolutely needed to arrive at eight o'clock. The city council was arranging a Fall Festival, and had ordered the tents and tables from Boston. They were cutting it close, since set-up for the festival was at eleven that morning, and the supplies had arrived the night before. But with enough couriers working at the same time, everyone figured it should all fall into place.

"Good gracious! This is! I can't even! Oh no! No, no, no!" Whitaker whimpered, petting the dents like he could somehow make the car feel better by being nice to it.

Gathering his wits, he pulled out his phone to call a tow truck. The digital display on the front of his phone said that it was seven-forty-five. With a sudden surge of panic, he dialled as quickly as he could.

"Hello…" The voice from the mechanic's shop answered.

"Yes! Michael! Hello!" Whitaker said frantically, but the voice kept on going.

"…I'm out on an emergency right now, so please leave your name and number after the tone."

Whitaker hung up in frustration before the tone could even sound. He reached into his car, grabbed the brown bag with his lunch in it, and started walking. What kind of emergency could there possibly be so early in the day other than his own? Did Govinda hit somebody else who was faster at dialling?

He was at the turn where the gravel became pavement, having walked quite a stretch, when a grey truck coming from behind slowed down alongside him. The back of it was full of tools and garden implements, and a few potted shrubs. A man with a wave of blonde hair and an out-of-date but extremely flattering moustache rolled down the window.

"Hey, Whitaker. What's new?" He said, grinning.

"I don't have time to talk, Will. I'm going to be late for work, and I absolutely cannot be late today."

"Would you like a ride?"

"Yes! Perfect! Thank you!" Whitaker beamed, running to the other side and jumping into the truck without any hesitation. "I really would appreciate it if you could ignore the speed limit."

"Consider it done." Will nodded, and took off at a highly irresponsible seventy. He would slow down once they were closer to where the sheriff might see them.

"You saved my life, they would have killed me for holding things up." Whitaker sighed, the panic starting to slip away from him.

"No problem at all. What exactly happened to your car? I saw what was left of it."

"Govinda Jadhav slammed right into it. Then he drove away."

Will made every attempt not to laugh, knowing that some details had probably been omitted, but suspecting that the gist was probably just as bad as it seemed.

"Sometimes, that man acts like a sociopath," Whitaker sighed, "Please don't tell him I said that."

"Wouldn't dream of it." Will chuckled, "And, frankly, I agree. Sometimes he _does_ act like a sociopath. I suppose it's a necessary evil for lawyers. Just make sure he pays for the damages."

"I'm pretty sure that he's going to figure out a way to sue _me_."

"Oh, probably," Will replied, "If he does, egg his house. You won't be able to beat him in court, meaning you'll have to get your vengeance elsewhere. Throw three or four cartons at it. See if you can find rotten ones. He'll blame Mason, naturally, so he won't actually do anything about it. It's flawless."

They arrived at the courier office just three minutes after eight. Whitaker thanked Will profusely, and hurried inside. His boss didn't even notice, since despite the fullness of the day, they were still observing the obligatory five minutes of standing around and eating doughnuts.

Will drove on, heading towards the expensive neighbourhood, where he would plant the shrubs and clip the hedges, and try his level best not to think about the things he knew he had forgotten. He smiled when he drove past the school and saw the busted headlight and huge dent in the front of a familiar black car.

Inside the red brick school building, Mary Margaret Blanchard had just gotten her class to quiet down to begin the morning when the door opened and Mason Ringer slouched in with a guilty-looking grin on his face. She made no efforts to hide her disappointment when she said:

"Late again, Mason?"

And the children snickered among themselves.

"It was my fault," Govinda said from the door motioning Mary Margaret to come over and speak with him, "We had a little fender bender this morning out on Woodedge."

"Was everyone alright?" Mary Margaret gasped.

"Everyone was fine, but I'd appreciate it if you didn't mark him down as tardy today. The situation as it is…"

"Of course," She smiled, "I'll overlook it, just this once."

"Thank you very much." Govinda nodded at her, and then nodded at Mason who flashed him an expert expression of nonchalance.

Then he headed back out of the school building, and drove straight to the mechanic's garage. They told him how long it would take to fix, and what it was going to cost. Neither were particularly agreeable assessments, and one meant that he was going to have to figure out transportation for the better part of the week. As well as solve the problem of getting Mason home from school.

He was walking to his office, thinking about these problems and more, when he came across a young woman with brown hair. Her name was Theodora Brees, and she was the one who lived in the red house on their tiny little street. She was standing outside Mr. Gold's shop, looking wistfully at a pair of beautiful silver shoes in the window. She glanced up and smiled when she saw Govinda coming.

"Is it every morning, now?" He asked, stopping to join her in her window gazing.

"_Most_ mornings. Every morning would be pathetic, and weird." Theodora answered.

"Why don't you just buy them?"

"They're probably very expensive." She sighed, and looked longingly at her shoes.

They weren't actually _hers_, obviously, since they were legally-speaking Mr. Gold's. But she loved them, and knew that they belonged to her in a way that was realer than anything else in her life. Of course, that sounded crazy so she never told anyone about that part. She just said she had an idea that her feet would feel amazing in them.

"Wait, wait," Govinda shook his head, "You don't even know how much they cost? Haven't you ever gone in and asked?"

"I tried to, once," She answered, "But I got the strangest headache, right in the middle of my forehead, like somebody was pushing against it. I guess it was the smell, or the dust or something. I must not be good at antique shops. Anyway, it was so off-putting, I've never gone back in."

"Huh."

"Hey, shouldn't you be at work?"

"I gave myself the morning off," He explained, "I was in a car accident. You can write about it, if you like. Whitaker Lapin was coming out of his driveway, and those bushy trees were in the way…"

"Oh, I can't write about that. Sidney would never print it, since it has an unpleasant angle on the mayor."

Theodora was always getting her work cut to shreds during the editing process by the proud, notoriously partisan Daily Mirror. It had gotten so bad, they were only letting her write fluff pieces and community notices.

"How does _my_ car accident have an unpleasant angle on the mayor?" Govinda chuckled.

"Those trees are part of city maintenance," She explained, "Our property doesn't begin until five feet behind that road, so trimming the branches and all of that isn't _our_ obligation. That's why William Meade is always complaining about how he can't cut them down and make his lawn look better. He's sent the mayor about a hundred letters."

"Really?" Govinda smirked, "Then I guess the Stroybrooke city planning commission will be paying the repair bills for Mr. Lapin and myself."

"Good luck with that." She said in a tone that was genuinely encouraging, but also convinced of his inevitable failure. Nobody won claims against the city. Ever.

"Let's go get some coffee. People will think we're planning a robbery if we stand around here much longer…"

"Alright," Theodora said, with one last longing look at the silver shoes, "Anywhere but Granny's. That girl in the red hotpants never gets my order right."

* * *

><p><em>AN: Thanks for the reviews, and thanks to everyone who put me on alert. For those wondering, Westley/Will (the Man in Black) is from _The Princess Bride_. Which is pretty awesome in book form, but extremely awesome in movie form._

_Hope you enjoyed this chapter! I'd love to hear your thoughts on everyone's Storybrooke identities so far!_


	3. Abundance and Absence

Mason had been trying to listen to the language arts lesson, but he'd gotten distracted. Not by something outside the window, like the songbirds or anything like that. He'd noticed that Henry - the awkward kid who never played anything fun - wasn't in school. His desk was empty.

Normally, this wouldn't have bothered Mason at all, but his own classroom attendance had been under such scrutiny that he was now being shuttled to and from every location by the world's least fun person ever. On top of this, Mason had seen Henry the evening before at the toy store, and was absolutely positive that the boy was not sick.

It seemed to be another symptom of corruption. The grown-ups he knew mentioned corruption when they thought he wasn't paying attention, and he'd gotten a pretty good handle on what was going on in town.

Everyone had been sitting Mason down in hard chairs, and insisting that the only reason to ever miss school was a serious illness. Like the kind where you absolutely cannot move and will barf all over everyone if you try to talk. But when the mayor's kid wants to take the day off? That's just fine. It's just perfect. We'll just ignore it, since we all know Henry's been having some _difficulties_. Everyone has difficulties, Henry. Just because your mother pays for a shrink and you can't accept the boundaries between fantasy and reality doesn't mean you should be allowed to skip school. Not if Mason isn't allowed to skip school, too.

He put his hand up.

"Yes, Mason," Mary Margaret said, "Do you have a question?"

"Where's Henry?"

"Oh. I think he's sick today…"

"No, he's not sick. He's totally not sick. I saw him yesterday, and he's fine."

"I really don't think it's appropriate to be talking about this right now," Mary Margaret said in her sternest voice, which wasn't very stern at all, "So let's all focus on the lesson, alright?"

"Miss Blanchard, everybody knows that if a boy isn't sick on Sunday but he is sick on Monday, he's not really sick. I mean, he was at the toy store last night. The toy store! His mother wouldn't let him do that if he had the slightest sniffle. And now he's not in class, and he's not going to get in trouble. And I think it's very unfair."

"Well…" Mary Margaret meant to chastise Mason quickly, but the point he had raised was a surprisingly good one. Beside which, she'd been a little worried about Henry herself.

"Stupid day for it," Mason went on, "Rookie mistake, really. He must've forgotten that we only have a half-day because of the festival. Either that, or he's, like, a school-skipping genius. I mean, his mother's going to be so busy in the park, how would she even notice he wasn't where he was supposed to be? The guy could be halfway to Boston right now, and nobody would know."

It would later turn out that Mason was partially correct.

Henry was at that point in time less than a third of the way to Boston, on his mission to bring his birthmother to Storybrooke.

Henry's adopted mother, meanwhile, was in the park, terrifying Whitaker Lapin half to death.

She wasn't doing anything to him personally. But she'd been yelling at so many of the couriers and people helping with set-up, that he knew it was only a matter of time before she descended upon him in a precision strike of perfect hair and lethal fury. His solution was not to lie low, since she was yelling the most at people who were taking breaks, but instead to do the best job he could of things that didn't concern her. If he looked like he was working really hard on setting up the judge's table for the baked goods contest, she might completely ignore him.

It was right when he thought he was going to make it, that he heard her regal and perpetually dissatisfied tones:

"You," She said, and he turned around, "Did you do all of this by yourself?"

"Ye-yes." He swallowed, and tried to smile. He just looked worried.

"Not bad," Regina nodded, and looked at him as though she were trying to see something. As though there might be some indication of identity _beyond_ his face. He felt distinctly like he was being examined, "Do I know you?"

"I… I don't think so," Whitaker stammered, "Madam Mayor."

"You'll have to forgive me," Regina smiled, and the strange intensity of the moment passed, "Sometimes I think I should know everyone in town. You've done nice work on this. Get rid of these empty boxes."

"Right away." Whitaker smiled back at her and nodded, while trying to resume his normal circulatory functions. It wasn't easy, because when he turned back around to finish his work, he found himself looking right at Govinda instead.

"Glad I bumped into you, Whitaker," He said with an unusual amount of fondness, "I need to talk to you about the legal ramifications of our little demolition derby this morning."

"You said you were at fault! You can't sue me!"

"Keep your voice down, you idiot," Govinda growled, "I need you to remember this very clearly. _I_ was not at fault, it was the overgrown trees…."

"Hey, Whitaker. Is this for the baking contest?" Theodora asked, very casually, examining the little pavilion.

"Hmm?" Whitaker squeaked, "Oh yes, that's for judging and entries are over there."

"You're interrupting." Govinda told her.

"You probably shouldn't discuss it here, with all of her city council spies around setting everything up. Take him out for a drink later. Besides, if you have to walk to the school, you'd better get going." Theodora said, prompting him to glance at his watch.

"We'll talk later." He said to Whitaker, and strolled out of the park with an elegant ease to his steps.

"Thanks for getting rid of him." Whitaker sighed.

"He doesn't know how intimidating he is." She shrugged.

"He's knows exactly how intimidating he is," Will Meade supplied, wandering over with a box full of bright pink apples, "That's what makes getting along with him such a pain in the neck."

"Those are pretty." Theodora smiled and nodded at the apples.

"They're from Mr. Summers' orchard, and they're quite good. Try one if you like," Will smiled, and Theodora grabbed one from the box, "He asked me to bring them over, since they're so heavy and he's not as spry as he used to be…"

"I don't remember Mr. Summers ever being spry!" Theodora laughed.

"Well, he must have been. We are all spry at least once." Will said with a nod, and Whitaker grabbed an apple from the box.

Theodora bit into hers and smiled.

"Oh, if you see him again before I do, you have to tell him that they're the most delicious things!" She beamed.

And Whitaker nodded enthusiastically as he took a bite of his own.

"He'll be thrilled to hear it," Will said, "You know, Storybrooke has wonderful growing conditions for apples. Odd thing in these parts. The mayor herself has a tree - red delicious, I think - and the fruit is so perfect, it looks as if it was made of glass."

"The mayor!" Whitaker gasped suddenly, "I better clear up these boxes, or she'll have my neck!"

An outburst of panic was such an expected occurrence with Whitaker that all of his friends had learned to keep having conversations around them.

"What kind are these?" Theodora asked, looking at the cheerful colour and round shape of the apple in her hand.

"Pink ladies, I think."

"Theodora!" Sidney Glass called, making his way across the park, "Theodora!"

"Just watching set-up, Sidney," She replied in lieu of a greeting, "Seeing if anybody needs a hand."

"I'm really counting on you for this baking contest coverage," Sidney announced with a deadly seriousness that almost made Will drop his box, "I need you to do a good job; I can't keep devoting resources to editing all of your pieces. This _has_ to be a clean article."

"I think your circulation would increase dramatically if you included a dirty story about a baking contest," Will supplied, "I might actually read that…"

"I think those apples go over by the podium." Sidney said, and smiled tightly.

"So they do. But keep in mind that a few racy comments about brownies might just put you on the fast-track to a Pulitzer." Will waggled his eyebrows for effect, then took his shipment to its destination.

He hadn't mentioned, in all his comments about apples, that Mr. Summers was deeply saddened that the town had ordered the contents of his orchard for decorative purposes. Certainly, the old man had been paid a fine sum; so much that he would have felt himself a fool to turn it down. In fact, Mr. Summers told Will that the agreement specified that the apples be displayed in such a way that they were not confused with the items for consumption being made available. It seemed like a strange kind of injustice to impose on an old, old man and his apples. But Will had his suspicions about why it was done, and none of them flattered Madam Mayor in the least.

He was glad that of the people he knew who he could have snuck the apples to, he ran into Whitaker and Theodora. Because Whitaker was a man who needed a lovely and small indulgence, and Theodora was the kind of person who would go on saying wonderful things about that apple because they were true.

A victory for the old man, and the apples, and Will - who could not stand idly by and let a good thing be spoiled.

"Beautiful colour!" Ada Ringer said of the pink ladies, her arms full of a huge plastic carrying case full of cupcakes with luscious green frosting and glittery sprinkles.

"Look at you, you baked!" Will said, impressed.

"It's a tactical manoeuvre in my fight to the death with the PTA," She explained, "If I beat their bleach-blonde asses in the bake-off, they'll just be _livid_."

"And you're adhering to the dress-code today. Well done." Will smiled, referring to the fact that Ada was notorious for her dresses. Which were always very short, or particularly form-fitting, or very short and particularly form-fitting. Today, however, she was wearing a green zippered top and low-rise jeans.

She was not as controversial as Ruby when it came to personal style, but she was definitely one of the runners-up. And the outrage was often worsened by her single-mother status, and had recently been heightened by the latest incident between Mason and Sheriff Graham.

"Is Mason around?" She asked, ignoring Will's comment about her attire. She knew he thought he was being encouraging.

"Well, I don't seem to be having chestnuts thrown in my face…" Will shrugged.

He and Mason had a difficult friendship. In fact, it was hardly a friendship at all, since all Mason tried to do was pick physical fights with Will, and declare that they were "natural enemies" for some reason. Will did what he could to rise above it, but it was quite the challenge.

"I thought he and Govinda would be here by now," Ada said, looking around, "The other kids are all showing up."

"Ah, well. Govinda and Mason are _walking_ from the school…"

"Walking? Is this some stupid life-lesson crap he's doing?"

"So he didn't tell you about the car accident?" Will chuckled, deeply amused at the situation.

When Govinda and Mason finally strolled up to the park, arguing about the necessity of sitting at a desk, they were met by a very displeased looking Ada. Who was, in fact, so mad that her face had turned bright red.

It was like she was blushing with rage.

"Mason," She said, "Go play with Will."

The boy shrugged, and went to hassle his neighbour, thinking he might throw some of those apples at his head or get up into the tree branches and call him unflattering names.

"Hello, Ada, you look very nice," Govinda smiled, "Very event-appropriate."

"Screw you and shut the hell up," Came the reply, "Who do you think you are? You get into a traffic accident with my boy in your car, and you don't even call to let me know?"

"Ah. I can explain that…"

"Of course you can, you can explain everything you do, because everything you do is reasonable. But the things other people do are bullshit, and their explanations aren't explanations - they're excuses. So I don't want to hear whatever super-enlightened justification you have for pulling this crap, okay?"

"Excuse me?" Govinda raised an eyebrow at the woman, and was just about to launch into a tirade of his own, but it looked like she wasn't finished with hers yet.

"But I'm going to forgive and forget about this, because nobody was hurt. And you've done a lot for Mason and me, and we're both very grateful. But you need to remember that he is _my_ kid, and if you want him to start showing you more respect, you'd better start by setting an example and showing some respect to me. Got it?"

She knew that if she gave him the opportunity to actually answer her, he would say something offensive and the whole thing would escalate into a full-blown public argument. Which was the last thing she needed just then, since she was going out of her way to look extra-conformist at the festival.

So, before he could even open his mouth, she turned on her heel and headed straight over to where Whitaker and Theodora were taking notes on the contest entries. She tried to walk like she was planning to go over there, and silently cursed herself for not picking a more dynamic target.

"Nice top." Theodora said, looking up from her notepad.

"Of course _you_ like it, I wore it because it's prim."

"Good attitude," Theodora nodded, returning to her task, "Don't say that if somebody from the school tries to compliment you."

"I am so not in the mood for female rivalry." Ada shook her head.

"So stop picking fights with all the other women."

"Yeah, I think I'll just avoid them. Because they usually start it."

It was at this point that Whitaker, sensing a mini-catfight in the making, decided to change the subject.

"I'm certain you'll do well in the baking contest!" He beamed, "Everyone else who made cupcakes absolutely covered them in sugar flowers. I don't think you'll even be able to taste the cake…"

"Thanks, Whitaker. You can have the first one, when they open tasting."

Will marched over, Mason surprisingly cooperative and tucked under one arm. The boy made a few feeble attempts to punch and kick the man carrying him, but for the most part he looked like he had conceded a loss.

"I won that round." Will announced, putting Mason down in front of Ada.

"He's really, really good at sword-fighting with sticks," Mason confessed, looking a little shell-shocked, "He's not… He's not left-handed…"

"Let this be a lesson to you," Will said sternly, "The ambidextrous man is a powerful, almost undefeatable enemy. Fear him always."

"Don't fill his head with nonsense, he gets enough of that from other people." Govinda chastised, having taken Ada's blow to his ego a little sulkily at first, but eventually deciding to join the group.

Across the park, Regina observed the small and rag-tag group of neighbours talking and laughing among themselves. She narrowed her eyes, watching them for some sign. Some familiar tell. A tapping clack, the sound of a stick hitting the paved path, came nearer to her; but it could not move her curious gaze from the people she watched.

"Lovely decorations this year," Mr. Gold said, "Particularly the apples. A nice touch."

She looked at him out of the corner of her eye, and nodded towards Ada and the others.

"Do you know them?"

"Ah, _them_," He smiled, "Of course I do. I know each and every one of them."

"Really?" Regina sneered, as though she did not believe him, "Then who are they?"

He moved his shoulders towards her, and spoke softly:

"They're the people who live on Woodedge Road."

Regina's expression of pure and sudden outrage made him smile.

"Now, if you'll excuse me," He said, "I better get over to the baked goods. It's not everyday you can get a slice of Granny's blackberry crumble for free."

Regina wasn't about to let it go at that, but a more pressing matter presented itself when Mary Margaret Blanchard came up to talk to her.

"Everything looks wonderful, Regina," She said sweetly, "It's a shame Henry can't make it. Is he feeling better?"

"What?" Regina asked, shooting her a steely glare, "What are you talking about?"

"Henry. He stayed home sick today?"

"Henry's not sick…"


	4. He Came From the Sunset

The second-to-last house on Woodedge Road was the simplest. It had stacked-stone walls, which were not as well placed or grandiose as the ones on the wealthy side of town, and did not give the impression of a castle. There was a wooden fence along the edge of a lovingly kept yard, with an old and creaky gate that needed to be opened in order to get at the driveway.

The house itself was on the back end of the lot, and a small garden shed sat in front of it. The roof of the shed had a tendency to leak, so there was a blue tarp tacked down on top of it. Next to it was parked the grey truck, and in front of it was a sapling with a burlap bag around its roots.

It was a nice enough place, but the man who lived there could not love it.

To him, it was like all things - a pale shadow of some golden life that had once been his. A substitution for a home he had once lived in, and taken care of with tender devotion. And all around him, an empty space where there should have been the greatest of all things.

He knew that he had once been all of himself, in the place he had come from before he lived in Storybrooke. But whenever he tried to look into his memory to see where that was, he became lost. Trapped in a maze of things that had happened only the week before, or knowledge of events that he couldn't remember acquiring. Sometimes, the yearning to look into his past and _know_ what was there became so strong that it overwhelmed him. And his sorrow at his failure wrapped around his heart, and squeezed until he could feel a genuine pain in his body.

It seemed so wrong to him that he had gone to the hospital and Dr. Whale had taken a scan of his brain, to see if there was anything physically affecting his memory.

The scan came back clean.

The doctor had asked him to go over his list of symptoms again, to describe exactly what was wrong. Then he had written a prescription for anti-depressants and suggested an appointment be made with Dr. Hopper.

The appointment was not made, and the prescription was not filled.

There were evenings after that, when he just sat in a chair on his back porch, watching the sky change colour through the trees. And in the moment right between when he was asleep and awake, he would expect a woman to come out from inside the house, and put a hand on his shoulder to bring him into bed. He couldn't describe how she looked, but he knew her presence, and it soothed him.

They were the happiest moments in his life.

Until one night, when he had a dream of a woman with long loose hair and clear eyes the colour of river. Beauty beyond compare. And she was on a farm, asking him to do random menial chores. It was all very funny for some reason, and very perfect. Then, towards the end of the dream, he remembered her name - it wasn't like he had made it up, as part of the dream's logic; he had actually _remembered_ it.

The next morning, when Will Meade woke up, he couldn't stop smiling. When he got out of bed, he started whistling a song he didn't realize he knew. And when he looked at his reflection in the bathroom mirror, he felt compelled to brush his hair so that it fell a little over one eye. So that he felt more like the man he was in his dream.

It was while he was brushing his teeth that he had a sudden epiphany. It was a very strange one, but it felt so genuine, he said it aloud to himself with the toothbrush hanging out of his mouth.

"If I'm ever going to be happy again, I need to stop the mayor."

He paused for a moment, then shot his reflection a raised eyebrow as if to say to himself: _You're really coming apart at the seams, William-Old-Boy_. But he couldn't help from smiling as he did it.

He practically skipped down the stairs, had extra strawberry jam on his toast, and swung his keychain around in a jaunty little circle before he started his truck and drove to the house next door.

Whitaker was already waiting outside, with his lunch bag in his hand.

"Good morning!" Will called cheerfully.

"Morning!" Whitaker replied, always being pleased to see that other people were pleased. He hopped into the truck, pulled the door closed and was fastening his seatbelt when he said: "Did you hear about the clock tower?"

"No," Will said, "Did one of the hands fall off and crush someone?"

It was a well-worn joke in Storybrooke that the clock tower was a broken piece of junk that was five minutes away from killing everyone.

"The opposite, actually. They got it working again."

"You don't say?"

"Yes, so you can put that in your next letter to City Hall," Whitaker chuckled, "They found the time to fix the clock, so now they can make the time to maintain our road."

"Alas, we live in Maine," Will sighed, "Road maintenance is a pipe dream."

As they drove into the heart of downtown, Will looked up and noticed that the clock was indeed ticking. For some reason, it gave him a sense of reassurance and newness of purpose. But also reinforced the strange conviction he'd woken up with. And that troubled him a little.

"Do you ever feel like you're going insane? Harmlessly insane, I mean." He asked Whitaker.

"Of course," Whitaker shrugged, "Last night, I had a dream I was playing croquet with a flamingo and a woman in an elaborate dress kept screaming that someone had stolen her tiny dessert pies. I've never had a dream like that before. It was odd, but harmless. I think a little _controlled_ insanity is what keeps us from _dangerous_ insanity."

"That's very encouraging."

They drove alongside the park, but couldn't see the bench where Theodora was sitting with a latte and the morning paper. The front page was a highly sensationalized account of a woman who was passing through town and crashed her car. Allegedly she was drinking, but Theodora was familiar enough with Sidney's creative wording to know that no evidence was actually collected. She didn't even get to the reports inside before she got fed up, crumpled the whole thing and threw it into the recycling bin next to the bench.

That was when the Dalmatian trotted over, and put his head right into her lap.

"Hi," She said glumly, and scratched behind his ears, "What's up?"

He didn't answer, of course, but seemed to be enjoying the attention. Theodora had seen him around, and was trying to remember who he belonged to. She checked his tag, which had his name - Pongo - and his phone number and address. Patting his head, she tried to think if she knew who the address belonged to.

Then a whistle came from over the path. Pongo perked his ears for a moment, but decided it was not worth it to leave Theodora's expert ear-scratching skills.

"I think somebody is looking for you." She whispered.

Pongo just readjusted his head so that she could maybe scratch under his chin, too. If she wanted.

"So that's how it is, huh?"

The whistle came again, this time completely ignored by Pongo.

"Pongo!" A man's voice called out, "Pongo, time to go!"

"Over here!" Theodora called back, and smiled at Dr. Hopper as he came over the crest of the little hill. She didn't know much about him, she realized suddenly. Only his name, and that he was a doctor of some kind, and that he dressed like it was always going to rain. Which wasn't too crazy in Storybrooke.

He stopped abruptly, and smirked at how his dog had made himself suddenly at home.

"Looks like you've got a new friend," He said, "I hope he's not bothering you."

"Not at all," She patted Pongo on the head, and he started to lick the inside of her hand, "I'm quite the dog-enthusiast. They make for excellent best friends."

"Huh. I thought Pongo and I knew just about every dog and owner in Storybrooke…" Dr. Hopper said, clicking a thin red leash to his dog's collar.

"Oh, I don't have one now!" Theodora corrected, with a very sad and wistful smile.

"Why not?"

"It's a long story, and a little too sad for strangers…" She said, and there was a tone in her voice that sounded so full of longing, no good psychiatrist could ignore it.

"I'm Archie," He said, putting out his hand, "And I think you're one the reporters for the Mirror, right?"

"Theodora." She shook his hand.

"Now we're not strangers."

She looked at him skeptically for a long while until he announced:

"I'm not going to leave until you tell me the story."

Theodora sighed, and looked at the ground while she spoke.

"When I was a little girl, I lived in Kansas with my aunt and uncle. My parents were dead. Anyway, they had this farm that was a very… bleak stretch of grey. And there were other farms, neighbour farms, and plenty of people but not a lot of kids. So, to keep me company, my uncle got me a dog - a little black cairn terrier. With silky fur, and shiny black eyes that twinkled on either side of his funny button nose. I just loved him, with that complete adoration of a little girl. I was supposed to make him sleep under my bed, but I would wait until my aunt and uncle were asleep, and I'd scoop him up and hold him like a teddy bear all night. He was my partner in crime, and we did everything together." She stopped, overwhelmed by the memories of a life long ago.

It seemed like more than a hundred years since she had lived in Kansas. And in all her recollections, everything was impossibly old-fashioned. The one-room farmhouse with its rusty old cookstove, the old fashioned plough and scythe. She knew, intellectually, that it was just because they had been extraordinarily poor, and that nothing was actually as archaic as it had seemed to her young mind. But still. It always mystified her a bit.

"And?" Dr. Hopper prompted, "What happened to him?"

"There was an old woman who lived not too far from us," Theodora said, a lump in her throat, "She was a mean, vindictive old woman, who just hated life and children I guess. One day I was out playing with my dog, and she kicked him, right in his tummy. So he growled at her and snapped his jaws, he didn't touch her at all. That's just what small breeds do when they're threatened. I saw the whole thing, but she cried out that he'd bitten her. Nobody could believe me, of course, they all knew how attached I was to my dog. Anyway, she told the police, and back in Kansas there was a law that any dog who bit a human had to be destroyed…"

Theodora suddenly found that large, round tears were rolling down her cheeks. She brushed them off with her fingertips and stood up.

"I'm so sorry," Dr. Hopper said with earnest sympathy, "Would you like my handkerchief?"

"No, thank you, I'm fine," She said, nodding very quickly, "I have to go, I've got to get to the office. Have a nice day."

She threw the rest of her cold coffee into the garbage and started heading down the path as quickly as she could. Thinking of the story had made her incredibly emotional, even though she had to confess to herself that the details got somewhat hazy towards the end. She remembered her uncle agreeing to bring the dog to the authorities, and she knew she'd tried to run away. After that, things got a little disjointed.

"Wait!" Dr. Hopper called out to her, "You're clearly upset, we can talk…"

She wasn't stopping, or slowing down.

"…about it."

Pongo shot him a disapproving glance, and hid his nose with his paws.

"What?" Dr. Hopper asked defensively.

Theodora kept hurrying along, sniffling a little and trying to shake all of the tears loose from her eyelashes before she got to work. She walked along the sidewalk next to the school, weaving between the children in uniforms heading towards the building, when a loud car horn sounded and pulled her from her thoughts.

She looked up to see Ada, hanging out of the driver's side window of her green 1970 Rebel Machine, holding her arms open in the international symbol of _what the hell, man_?

"Are you blind, now?" She called to Theodora, "I've been waving at you like a moron for ten minutes! Get over here!"

"Sorry," Theodora said, coming to stand on the edge of the sidewalk so that they were having their conversation over the roof of the car, "I'm a little distracted."

"Were you _crying_?" Ada scoffed.

"No. Yes. Maybe a little," Theodora shook her head, "What's up? Are you dropping Mason off?"

"Kind of. I'm driving him and Govinda, and Govinda has to walk with Mason into the building, then make sure that he is 100% in the classroom with Miss Blanchard," Ada explained, "It's like they're doing a prison transfer. It's horrible."

"They're doing what they think is best, I suppose…" Theodora offered, not wanting to say too much. She suspected that the only reason Ada had never tried to rip her hair out was because she kept her distance from the issues with Mason.

"That's not what I wanted to talk about," Ada said, "When you get to work, you need to tell your boss that he is an asshole."

This caused several of the nearby mothers dropping off their children to gasp, and give Ada chastising looks which she completely failed to notice. Theodora failed to notice them as well, since her response to the comment was slightly uncharacteristic:

"You know who's an asshole?" She said, "Dr. Hopper."

This resulted in several children having their ears covered.

"You should be ashamed of yourselves!" Somebody said from not-too-far-off.

"Yeah, okay," Ada said, taken aback and a little confused, "But back to _my_ point. I came in fourth place in that baking contest, and the results would have been on the front page. But some wino from Boston crashes her car into the city limit sign, and all of a sudden the respectable townsfolk who participated in the Fall Festival are pushed to section two? That's yellow journalism!"

"I might change the phrasing so that I don't lose my job, but I'll pass along the basic sentiment." Theodora replied.

"The baking contest is a highly prestigious tradition, and it deserves to be honoured by our town's newspaper," Ada nodded at her new wording, "So you just go ahead and tell Sidney Glass that. And that he's an asshole."

"I'll tell him the gist." Theodora nodded, and started to walk away with a friendly wave goodbye.

"Tell it to him like I told you to!" Ada called behind her, and slumped back into her car. She checked her hair in the rear-view mirror, and straightened her bra straps. She sighed, and rested an elbow on the open window, and put her hand on her forehead. She sighed again, and glanced out over the other cars to see the hands moving on the clock tower.

"When did they fix that…?" She murmured to herself, as the shrill school bell gave its warning ring. Five minutes until the start of class. All the children still outside of the building hurried in, and the cars of the other parents pulled out and drove away, so that - in a matter of what seemed like seconds - Ada was all alone on the street.

Govinda strolled out of the schoolhouse and down the steps.

"Miss Blanchard says," He explained as he got into the car, "That as far as the children are concerned, Henry Mills had a stomach bug. She thinks its in the best interests for everyone that his jaunt to Boston not be made public knowledge, so I don't think we have to worry about Mason getting any ideas."

"You were worried about him thinking it was cool to run away to Boston?" Ada laughed, pulling the car away from the curb, "He'd be way more likely to steal a boat and head out to sea to find some Somali pirates to kill."

"That's not encouraging…" Govinda groaned.

They drove for silence, until he brought up an unusual subject that had been on his mind so much that morning, he needed to talk to _anyone _about it. Even if it was Ada.

"Do you suppose," He began, "That people ever wake up in the morning, feeling a strong obligation to murder a political figure?"

Everyone was so used to Govinda bringing up random subjects, and speaking in very eccentric metaphors, that she didn't think twice about engaging this discussion.

"I imagine that's how we get presidential assassins." She shrugged.

"Do you suppose it happens to ordinary people? Just, say, you woke up this morning and felt like you absolutely needed to kill the mayor." He said, and if Ada had been listening more closely she would have noticed that his tone was not hypothetical. It was pensive and deeply troubled, but pretending to be hypothetical.

"I wake up and want to kill the mayor all the time," She said, "That woman is terrifyingly uptight. And she's sleeping with the sheriff, so it would probably piss him off if she died. And you know how much I hate the sheriff…"

"She's sleeping with the sheriff?" Govinda raised his eyebrows, "How do you know that?"

"I saw them talking one time, and she brushed some lint off of his shoulder." Ada explained.

"And that… is not evidence, so you're just guessing."

"Feel free to not believe me, but don't pretend to be shocked when the scandal breaks."


	5. Chestnuts and Donuts

Sheriff Graham was sitting in the police cruiser, parked on the far end of the schoolyard where a green field used for athletics sat strangely empty. It was the end of lunch hour, when children usually ran around playing tag and red rover. But today, there was an almost tranquil stillness. The only movement was a rustling in the chestnut trees every now and then.

Graham supposed that all the children were playing on the jungle gym, or maybe participating in some activity set up inside. He watched the school from noon to one o'clock on every weekday as part of his patrol, and some days were quieter than others. It wasn't unheard of.

Then came the rooster crow.

An expert sound that seemed to fill the air for miles, it was as sudden and powerful as a rebel yell.

And, once sounded, a flurry of green and brown conkers rained down from the trees. Hitting the hood, roof and windshield of the police cruiser with a constant drumming.

The onslaught lasted for almost ten minutes before the bell rang. At this point, the warrior boys jumped and scurried down from the trees and ran in a sudden wave for the school doors and safety. If the group stayed together, they had been told, there was nothing the sheriff could do to them.

But, going against the plan entirely, Graham got out of his car and called to the boys:

"Mason Ringer!"

The children stopped, as if suddenly frozen, and looked to one another with uncertainty. At the head of the group, Mason nodded to himself with a mischievous conviction, then turned around. A buzz of whispers surrounded him as he made his way over to the sheriff.

"What seems to be the problem, officer?" He asked, as politely as he could muster.

"Chestnuts, Ringer? Really." Graham said, with a patient exasperation and a shake of his head.

"Chestnuts are in season," Mason replied, "Just about that time of year when they start falling off of trees. Shame they fell on your car, Sheriff…"

"They didn't fall," Graham said sternly, putting his hands in the pockets of his leather jacket, "You and the other boys threw them. And you can get in a lot of trouble for assaulting a police officer, or vandalizing city property."

"Was I there? That's funny, I could have sworn we were all playing four square just now…"

The sheriff gave him an incredulous look.

"Even if we weren't," Mason shrugged, "How many of us do you think there are? Fourteen? Fifteen? You might find one of us willing to turn over on the others, but the group is too big for it to matter. After all, it was just harmless fun, Sheriff Graham. Boys will be boys. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'd better get back to class. I've been having some truancy issues."

"Behave yourself." The sheriff said, with a warning point of his finger, and then nodded at the school to let Mason go. He watched as the boy caught up with his classmates, who were all wearing triumphant grins. It was hard to be angry at them, when they all looked so pleased and thoroughly boyish.

_Boys will be boys_, Mason always liked to say to the sheriff as way of an excuse. Graham figured that he'd picked up the expression from his mother, or their lawyer, or maybe even Mary Margaret - it was easy to picture her using a saying like that, without realizing what a weapon it would become.

He checked the cruiser for damage, but only found a few scuff-marks and some sap. Nothing too terrible. And really, when he thought about it, the whole thing was the kind of mischief that made little boys feel somehow heroic and triumphant. To them, Graham was Authority - and today, they had thrown chestnuts on the car of Authority.

As he pulled away, he found himself wishing he'd taken a better look at the group to see if Henry had been in it.

He sincerely hoped he was.

On its way back to the station, the police cruiser passed by the offices of the Daily Mirror; where Whitaker Lapin was getting out of his brown courier truck, with a clipboard and a small flat box under one arm. He had found himself uncommonly thoughtful that day. He'd woken up with a sort of zen sense of purpose that was completely unfamiliar to him. But all at once, as though a barrier had fallen, he had accepted his own fearful nature and decided that whatever lay before him in life, things would be much worse for him if he did not try at all.

Yes, he was a paranoid and terrified man. No, it didn't bother him if anyone else knew. They were his survival tactics. His fight-or-flight instinct was firmly switched to flight, and that was just fine with Whitaker.

When he opened the glass embossed doors that led into the bullpen, he was surprised to find a surly and quiet atmosphere. Usually when he made deliveries to the Mirror, the place was buzzing with conversation and ringing phones and clacking on keyboards. Reporters ran to-and-fro, people tried to solve the Sunday crossword before it was officially printed, and everyone was usually grinning at something.

There was still the clacking of keys and ringing of phones, but there wasn't much else.

The girl at the front desk looked up and smiled at Whitaker expectantly.

"Package for Mr. Glass." He explained.

"He's not in right now," The girl replied, "But if you leave it with me, I'll sign for it."

"No problem!" Whitaker said brightly, and handed her the package as well as the clipboard. With a quick scratch and scrawl, she passed the board back to him and returned to her work.

Across the room, Theodora looked up from her small desk and waved.

"I'm just going to go have a quick word with my friend." Whitaker explained to the receptionist, who waved him on absent-mindedly.

"Hi!" Theodora said cheerfully but quietly, like she was afraid of interrupting the eerie stillness of the newsroom.

"It's like a morgue in here today," Whitaker observed, sitting down across from her, "What happened?"

"Did you see the paper this morning?" Theodora said, and handed him a copy.

"Oh, dear…" Whitaker murmured, looking over the headline article and _all_ its supplemental material, "You've certainly decided to devoted quite a bit of space to Miss… Swan."

"By order of her majesty, the mayor. And in order to make room for this seemingly pointless muck-raking, do you know how many articles Sydney had to cut? Last-minute, without telling a soul until it was at the printer's?"

"I'd imagine it was quite a few." Whitaker nodded, the situation finally starting to take shape in his mind.

"We are not a happy bunch."

"But why?" He cocked his head to one side, "My goodness gracious, it's not like anybody cares about things like this _so much_…"

"Oh no," Theodora agreed, "_We_ don't care. The average citizens of Storybrooke don't care - we'd be happy with two inches about it on the front page, maybe her mugshot or a photo of the car. But Regina Mills cares. A lot. And you're kidding yourself if you think Sidney Glass is the editor-in-chief of this newspaper, because he gets about as much say on what's printed as you do."

A nearby reporter who was accidentally eavesdropping on the conversation nodded in silent agreement.

"Well…" Whitaker looked at the morning's paper again, utterly baffled, "Why does Mayor Mills care about this? Doesn't she want a nice big headline that says _Fall Festival Enjoyed By All_?"

"At this point in time," Theodora replied in her most professional tones, "The Daily Mirror is not commenting on whether or not Miss Swan has any relationship to Mayor Mills or her son, Henry."

"So, she's… who exactly?" Whitaker asked.

"I'm not sure, but that's what we're being told to say for now. There's some gossip, but I don't care to repeat it until I know it's true."

"Curious," Whitaker shook his head, "More and more curious."

It was then that Sidney Glass himself returned to the office, carrying two large baker boxes stacked on top of one another. He placed them gently on the front desk and called everyone's attention to him by saying:

"Alright, everybody!" And when all heads turned towards him, he continued, "I know you're all a little put-out this morning, but sales have been great!"

This did nothing to inspire any kind of joy in the crowd.

"The articles that were trimmed to make room for this morning's feature have been very well-received," He went on, "And the pieces that were cut are going to run tomorrow. Now, I know you all probably think that I suck right now…"

To his dismay, there were no fond shakes of the head or cries of: You don't suck, Sidney! We all know what a pickle you were in!

Everyone just kept giving him their blank, vaguely annoyed stares.

"Anyway," He sighed, disappointed, "I bought everybody doughnuts. So… just help yourselves…"

Looking a little hurt, Sidney hurried through the bullpen and into his office. The pink boxes sat unopened on the front desk, and nobody got up to go to them. Later, maybe at lunch, people would start grabbing a doughnut or two, but right now everybody was content to be vindictive and refuse the peace offering.

"I feel badly for him." Whitaker said quietly.

"I used to," Theodora nodded, "But he does it to himself, really."

"Are you going to the Firebird tonight?" He asked, standing up to leave. The Firebird Tavern was one of the less-frequented watering holes in Storybrooke, but it was where most of the residents of Woodedge Road went to get liquored up and eat hot wings.

"Oh yes," Theodora said with conviction. Between her frustrations with work and people asking her about her saddest childhood memories, she was definitely in the mood to drown her sorrows, "I will see you and William there at six o'clock, and we will drink."

"Good. See you then." Whitaker nodded, and headed out of the office. He wondered absently - since Theodora had brought him up - if Will Meade still felt like he was going a little crazy.

It turned out that at that particular moment, Will was less concerned with his own sanity than he was with the sanity of others. A pond in the backyard of one the houses he did gardening for had gotten clogged when the owner's little girl had dropped one of those sparkly rubber balls into it. The excess water had seeped into the surrounding grass and made a sort of bog situation that Will was tending to, when he heard the loud and unmistakable roar of a chainsaw from down the road.

Choosing to ignore it, he was once again distracted from his work when the noise of the chainsaw stopped. It was replaced with the dulcet tones of what sounded distinctly like a woman having a total freak-out. Worried, since chainsaws and dangerous and upset women were rarely a good combination, he headed over to the source of the sounds.

He ended up witnessing the end of the scene by way of looking over a hedge. From what he could gather, there was a blonde woman he didn't recognize who had sawed off about half of the branches on the mayor's apple tree. This seemed to be out of spite.

The mayor was not pleased.

As the stranger was walking away, Will thought that he should go over and offer the mayor his help. He had tree tape and some support stakes in the back of his truck, and if they acted fast the tree would suffer a minimum of scarring.

But then he remembered Mr. Summers, and how all of those beautiful apples of his had sat underneath the afternoon sun, with no one allowed to eat them. And, afterwards, they were just tossed into a dumpster, with the used paper plates and plastic cups. So Will headed back to finish working on the pond.

The woman could fix her own damn tree.


	6. Field Trip

_A/N: Double posting today, so make sure you've taken a look at Chapter Five._

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><p>Govinda was nervous about the class field trip to the hospital.<p>

He was sitting at his desk, staring at someone's contract with Mr. Gold, trying not to think about it. But the hospital was right along the edge of the forest, and if Mason got it into his head to escape the group, it would be easy enough for him to hide from Miss Blanchard. And then Govinda would be called, and he would probably have to spend the whole afternoon searching for the boy.

It was pointless to try to work, since it was all going to be interrupted at the drop of a hat.

"You're not his social worker," Will Meade had said the day before, "You're not his father. You're his mother's lawyer. Try not to overstep."

They'd bumped into one another at lunch, and somehow the subject of the outreach program had come up. Which, in turn, had led to Will once again giving a piece of unsolicited advice.

People often complimented Will's insights, but Govinda found them either useless or insulting. In fact, he usually found Will quite taxing to talk to - he was both clever and forthright, which often felt like an impossible combination.

And he didn't seem to understand the situation with Mason at all.

Ada wasn't Mason's biological mother. It wasn't a commonly known fact, since Ada did not feel the need to validate herself by touting the altruism of taking in an unwanted child. Unlike the mayor. And most people just _presumed_ that Mason was hers, since she matched their idea of the kind of woman who might find herself without a mate and with a child. (Govinda always thought of two people engaged in a romantic relationship as mates, but he tried not to use the terminology out loud. People gave him strange looks.)

The boy - Mason - seemed to have a difficult time adapting to the confines of society and laws. In this, Govinda found him both relatable and slightly off-putting. Culturally, Govinda often struggled with the decisions and logic of the people around him; he often understood it, but he rarely shared it. He had his own set of guidelines to live by, and even though he conformed to the Storybrooke ways in order to be comfortable, in the end the only way he had any confidence in was his own.

But Mason did not have a separate set of rules he was living by. He was an anarchist.

There had been a few incidents that had started the larger trouble. The first was when Mason had taken to decorating his school uniform with leaves and feathers. He'd also used painted some swirls and dots on the blazer in white. After several warnings, the principal had told him that if he was going to wear his uniform, he was going to wear it properly. It was the choice of the word "_if_" that had been the problem.

The next day, Mason had shown up to class without any clothes on at all.

Miss Blanchard had been somewhat alarmed.

The second incident had been the mutiny, for which Mason had recruited an alarming number of children from all of the elementary grades. They had locked their teachers in the faculty lounge, and broke into the athletic supply closet and played dodgeball until the authorities came. They also ate everything in the cafeteria that they _could_ eat, which was probably what disappointed Govinda the most. He held that they should be punished by not having replacement food brought in.

This had been the first time Sheriff Graham had made himself an enemy to Mason.

It was after this that the investigation into Mason's home life started, and the threats of social workers from Boston had caused Mason to run away from home and school completely. He would leave Ada notes explaining his current adventures in lavish detail, and often break into the other houses on Woodedge Road to steal supplies. Govinda caught the boy while he was breaking into his kitchen, and that was when he'd started to take an interest in the case.

And now, he was sitting at his desk, tapping his pen against his papers, waiting for disaster.

But disaster was not to come, because that morning Mason had obediently gotten on the bus and ridden to the hospital. The thought of sick people made him very, very uncomfortable. He frowned during the entire trip, and tried to keep his mind off of where his class was going and what they were doing.

He wasn't scared of sickness, he told himself, since he wasn't scared of anything. This trip to the hospital was going to be a piece of cake.

"Eyes on me, everybody," Mary Margaret said, standing at the front of the bus, "Now, today we are going to be on our best behaviour. What we are going to be is…"

And she moved her hands like a conductor, so that everybody talked along with her in unison:

"Quiet, Courteous and Compassionate."

Everybody except Mason, who was still lost in his own thoughts.

"Good. When we go inside," Mary Margaret continued, "Dr. Whale is going to tell us all of the rules of the hospital, and we are all going to listen carefully. He told me that the patients here are very excited to have some visitors, but we have to make sure that we don't do anything to make them tired or uncomfortable…"

Mason tuned out the rest of the speech, and followed along wordlessly when everyone stood up and filed off the bus and through the glass double doors of the hospital.

He looked around nervously while Dr. Whale made his little speech, noticing some wheelchairs next to the reception area. A woman in pink scrubs was talking on the phone. Everything smelled like disinfectant.

The class was split into two groups to go up in the elevator, and Mason was in Mary Margaret's group. He went with her wordlessly, not sure what would happen when he was face to face with an actual patient. As he watched the elevator doors close, he felt swallowed up by a sudden helplessness.

He thought of growing old and weak, of the body breaking down relentlessly. About a quiet, unavoidable death.

He _was_ afraid of it.

He was so, so afraid of it, he wanted to wrap his arms around Miss Blanchard and have her comfort him while he wept and sobbed. Would she tell him it would be alright? Would she tell him that he would never have to face any of those things? That he could stay young and strong and free forever?

Her hand was hanging by her side, not too far from where Mason could reach it. He wanted to reach out and hold it, and not let go until they were gone from this place.

A bead of sweat dripped along the side of his forehead, and he trembled a little as he wiped it away.

The elevator dinged and the doors opened, and he hesitated.

"Come on, Mason," Mary Margaret said, and put a hand on his back to usher him out, "There's a patient who I think would like to talk to you."

This broke the trance, by piquing his curiosity.

"Somebody here?" He wrinkled his face up in disbelief, "Who? I don't know anybody in the hospital…"

"His name is Oren." She explained, leading him past some empty cots to a private room with get well cards taped to the windows.

A nurse was leaving the room, and she and Mary Margaret smiled like they knew each other.

"Can he manage a visitor?" Mary Margaret asked.

"I think so." The nurse replied, with a knowing smile.

The door opened, and Mason dreaded being face to face with someone who was dying. But instead, he saw a little boy a few years younger than him, sitting up in the hospital bed with a stuffed grey donkey next to him. And Mason was suddenly, completely unafraid.

"Hi!" He said with his usual devil-may-care spirit, "I'm Mason!"

"I'm Oren." The boy replied, and Mason went over and jumped on the end of the bed so that it squeaked so loud, Mary Margaret gasped and reached out her hand.

"Are you sick?" Mason asked, "Did you fall out of a tree?"

"No," Oren shook his head, "I've got a problem with my bones. They don't bend so good, so I have to have lots of operations."

"What kind of operations? Like where they cut you open?"

"I guess so. I'm always asleep, and then I'm not allowed to move for a long time after. Sometimes they put my arms and legs in casts, and then they take the casts off and make me bend."

"Just bend?"

"Just bend. Back and forth, and back and forth," He nodded his head from one side to the other to best illustrate the monotony of the process, "Wrist, then elbow, then shoulder. Ankle, then knee, then hip. Over and over and over…"

"That's grown-ups for you," Mason shrugged, "They call it _consistent_, but I call it _boring_."

The two boys talked with one another effortlessly, neither noticing when Mary Margaret slipped away. They talked about what it was like to have nurses, and what the hospital ice cream was like. They talked about what sorts of games Oren could play, and what kind of stories he liked. They talked about Mason's tree house, and all of his adventures, and Mason drew him pictures of his great wars with Sheriff Graham and Govinda. And he drew him a picture of Oren fighting a whale with a harpoon, since Oren didn't like a certain doctor very much.

Finally, the nurse from before came in with a very sweet smile on her face and said to Mason:

"Your teacher says it's time to go."

"Oh…" Mason said, disappointed, and turned back to Oren, "Well, you keep these pictures, and I'll be sure to draw you some more. And I'll bring you some supplies."

Supplies meant toys that were not soft.

"Okay!" Oren smiled, "Thanks for visiting me!"

"Well," Mason said in his wisest tone of voice, "You're one of my gang."

"_I am_?"

"Of course!"

When he rejoined his classmates, gathering around to be separated into their elevator groups again, he noticed that everyone was acting like something had happened.

"What's up?" Mason whispered to the nearest kid.

"Somebody will tell you on the bus." She whispered back.

It was Kurt who ended up sitting next to Mason on the bus, and telling him the gist of the story:

"Freakazoid," A nickname for Henry, "went into the place where they keep the coma patients. You know, the guys who are dead but all of the pumps and stuff are keeping their bodies alive? Like zombies?"

Mason nodded, and shuddered inwardly.

"And the doctor said that we weren't allowed to go in there. But Henry did anyway, and I didn't see it, but somebody told me that he opened up the guy's eyelid and poked him in the eyeball!"

"Is Miss Blanchard mad?"

"I can't tell."

Ordinarily, this would be when Mason got up and went to the front of the bus to congratulate Henry. To poke a zombie in the eye was no small feat. But ever since Henry had cut class on Fall Festival day, Mason had been wondering what exactly bothered him so much about the kid.

Eventually, he came around to something of an answer. Henry was not at all concerned with the business of games, fun or adventure. At least, not in the same sense that Mason was. He was content to spend all of his time with adults, and seemed to go out of his way to act as much like an adult as he could. It wasn't even that the other children excluded him, despite his strangeness, because he would sometimes say no to invitations to play mud-ball or chuck-stuff-at-the-sheriff.

Henry seemed to view Mason and the rest of the children as _others_. It was not a quality Mason appreciated.

"Did he get in trouble?" He asked, nodding towards the back of Henry's head.

"Now when has _that _ever happened?" Kurt gave a big fake smile, and his young voice oozed with bitterness.


	7. Silver Bells

_A/N: I tried to add this chapter earlier today, and there was an error of some kind. I don't know what's up with my profile, but I can't see any statistics for anything either. Very weird. Anyway, look at me getting reviews! Thanks, Time and Fate! Thanks also to my loyal, silent lurkers as well. I love you all._

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><p>"Thank you for all of your help," Whitaker Lapin was saying to Michael, the town mechanic, as he handed him the keys to the Rabbit, "I very much appreciate it."<p>

"Yeah," Michael nodded, "Just try not to leave it busted up, half-out of a gravel driveway again. Me and my tow truck would appreciate it."

"Yes, I'm very sorry about that…" Whitaker said guiltily, then remembered something else, "Oh! I need a second copy of my receipt, while I'm here! Just because Govinda Jadhav believes that the city is legally at fault for our crash, and I'll need it in case we win the case. So that they know how much they owe me."

"No problem," Michael shrugged, leading the way to the office, "Suing the city, huh? I guess that's why Mr. Jadhav hasn't paid me for _his_ repairs…"

"He hasn't? That seems a little presumptuous."

Michael scoffed, and went behind a small beat-up desk to turn on the computer.

"You see him, you tell him I'm not giving him his car back until he pays me. I'm not running a charity, and he's as likely to win a case against the city as I am to start shitting gold unicorns."

"I certainly will tell him." Whitaker nodded amiably.

"Any word on when the truck from Boston with my parts is coming?"

"Tuesday night, I think. I can call and let you know if it's on the schedule tomorrow morning."

"I'd be grateful." Michael nodded, and clicked _print_. Behind him, an old beige dot matrix began to wake up.

A shrill ringing, like an alarm clock, filled the room. It had nothing to do with the printer, and startled Michael.

"My cell phone." Whitaker explained, taking it out of his pocket.

"A ring like that would scare the bejesus out of me, every time." Michael chuckled at himself, as Whitaker took the call.

"Hello?"

"Hi, Whitaker!" Theodora replied cheerfully on the other end, "It's me. Are you at home yet?"

"No, not yet. I just needed to swing by the garage," He explained, "My car's ready! Will can close down his taxi service!"

"Oh, that's great," She said, with a lack of enthusiasm that implied there was something else on her mind, "Listen, I'm at the office and a report just came in about something a little weird…"

"Weird?" Whitaker was suddenly nervous, "What do you mean, weird?"

"Well, it turns out that last night, a coma patient from the hospital woke up. Which is, obviously, news. Especially since he was a John Doe. Anyway, nobody on staff was around and I guess the security guys were asleep? I'm not sure, they're keeping things pretty quiet right now…"

"It's very interesting," Whitaker said as politely as he could, "But I'm not sure what it has to do with me."

"Well, he just sort of… got up… and walked out of the emergency exit," She explained, "They're pretty sure he headed into the woods, and I wanted to let everybody on our street know. In case they saw something. So, he's wearing a hospital gown and he's around thirty they guess, six-foot-one, light brown hair, blue eyes… Actually, he sounds kind of handsome."

"Right," Whitaker cleared his throat, "What should I do if I see him?"

"Call the hospital."

"Thank you for letting me know."

"No problem. Talk to you later!" Theodora said, and hung up the office phone. She sighed deeply, and glanced at the clock.

She'd already called Ada, and hadn't been able to get a hold of Govinda. Sidney had asked her to look up the medical statistics regarding comas and coma patients, to run alongside the front page item on the disappearing sleep-walker. It was nice to have something close to real news again, but looking at all of the numbers and negative outcomes was making her head spin.

She picked the phone back up, and dialled Will.

"Will Meade, gardening and landscaping." He answered after the third or fourth ring.

"Hi," She said, "It's me."

"Hello, Theodora, what's new?"

She explained the situation to him quicker than she had to Whitaker, since he was much less likely to freak out at random occurrences. When she was done he said:

"That's… different. Unfortunately, I'm nowhere near home right now or I'd go and help them look for him. Must be terrifying - waking up from the brink of death, all alone, wandering the world with nothing but a paper dress between you and the elements. I certainly hope they get to him in time. How long has he been missing?"

"Around nine hours, they say." She said, "But they told us twelve before, so they might be trying to make themselves look better…"

There was a pause.

"Neither is good," He said, his voice gentler and lower, "He's probably not going to be alive when they find him."

"It's a slim chance, but he might be." Theodora insisted, the optimism aching through the phone.

"He might be," Will agreed, even though he didn't believe it at all, "You'll call and let me know how it turns out?"

"Absolutely."

He sighed as he hung up the phone, bracing himself for the soon-to-come phone call of profound grief he'd get when they told everyone in the newsroom that the coma man had been found stone dead in a ditch. This was the price you paid for having a hopeful person for a friend.

"Everything alright?" Mr. Summers asked, slowly walking across his field.

"Just fine," Will smiled, "Show me these pumpkins you're on about."

"I'll show you what's left of 'em, how bout that?" The old man said grouchily, shaking his head and ambling to a patch of flat green leaves, crawling vines and the round, under-ripe pumpkins.

"Connecticut Field?" Will guessed, bending down to look at the plant.

"Howdens," Mr. Summers corrected, "The kids are making a school trip out here on the twenty-eighth, picking 'em out for their jack-o-lanterns. I'd like to have some left by the time they get here. I got another patch down aways, growing some Luminas - in case the mayor wants to decorate something, ya know. But the kids'll want a proper orange pumpkin for carving."

"There aren't any bites, or unusual marks on them…" Will noticed, and looked at the places where the vines were snapped. It looked like half a dozen had been taken.

"When I first got to noticing, I figured it was animals," Mr. Summers nodded, "I ain't ever seen a raccoon who wants a pumpkin, but I wouldn't put it past one. Then I started paying attention. One stolen every night, without fail, and only ever one."

"Any idea who's doing it?" Will asked.

The old man shook his head and frowned.

"Can't think who'd want to. I'd say kids, but they get the damn things for free, and there're better things to steal for kicks. I've tried to stay up, keep watch, a couple times. But I'm too damn old, and I always fall asleep," He sighed heavily, "I was hoping you could set up a trap, some bells or something colourful, and maybe take a look at clipping off the dead stems over there."

Will considered the problem before him for a moment, then nodded to himself.

"I'll go to the hardware store, and get about six of those small round lights. The ones for inside closets. We'll put them around the patch, and if it's just someone out for mischief, it ought to keep them away. But if a pumpkin is stolen regardless, give me a call and I'll work something out."

"Lights? You think that'll do it?"

"It might, it might not. But you'd be surprised how many people lose their nerve without the cover of darkness."

Mr. Summers agreed to the plan, and Will was quick to make his way to the hardware store. It was old-fashioned, with barrels full of nails next to the check out and older men standing around talking about projects, seemingly all day. Will wondered if they worked out shifts for who would be having long-winded conversations at what time, since it was almost elegant in its rhythms, and never overlapped in a way that turned it all into chatter.

When he arrived, Marco was talking to the owner's nephew about chisels. They both looked up at Will as the old shop door clattered behind him.

"Garden lights?" He asked with a smile.

"Uh…" The young teenager looked over towards the backroom, to see if his uncle had come back with coffee yet, "I don't think we sell those…"

"I saw some in aisle five, maybe," Marco said helpfully, "I can show you where, Will."

"Thanks." Will replied with a smile.

Marco was the kind of person who went out of his way to try and remember everybody's name. He looked people in the eye when he shook their hands, and actually wanted to know the answer when he asked how they were. He was genuine and polite. Will liked him.

"You're friends with the lady who works sometimes at the arcade?" Marco asked, his slight accent giving the words a sing-song quality.

"Ada Ringer," Will nodded, "She lives on my street. She has a very… _distinct_ personality."

Marco nodded, pointing to a shelf display with garden lights of various sizes.

"You know her boy, too?"

"Yes, Mason," Will scanned the selection for the size he needed, "Rambunctious boy. A bit of a handful, really."

He picked out what he needed, and started heading towards the counter. Marco went along with him, and kept the conversation alive.

"You know I go to the hospital, with little wooden toys for the sick kids?"

"No, actually. That's quite decent of you, Marco."

He shrugged, as if to say it was a small enough thing for him to do.

"There's a little boy - Oren - who gets lots of surgeries. Your friend's son, he comes to see Oren on his class trip, and plays with him a little. I go to drop off some things, and all I hear about from Oren is not about his operations or his nurses, but this boy called Mason!"

Marco chuckled, and Will smiled as the teenager on till rang up his purchases.

"I think it would be nice if he could go visit again," Marco explained, "You could tell his mother that? From me?"

"Of course." Will said, and made a mental note to bring it up the next time he bumped into Ada.

Who was, at that particular time, standing in her backyard with a flashlight aimed at the woods. It wasn't dark yet, just the start of dusk falling, but among the trees those shadows deepened. She wore a worried expression, a brown leather jacket, a pale green dress and her hiking boots.

Since Theodora had called her, she had been wrestling with the idea of searching for the missing hospital patient. But she had no one to watch Mason, and even though she knew he would be fine on his own for a few hours, if someone came by and he was alone…

It would only add to her problems.

"What are you doing?" Mason asked, munching on a pizza pop as he sauntered up to her.

"There's a man, a lost man," She said, "I'm hoping he'll see my light, and then we can help him."

"A lost man?" Mason repeated, "Should I light all the lamps in my tree house? Maybe he'll be able to see us if we do that."

"Yes," Ada replied, still not taking her eyes off the depth of the forest, "Then go get the emergency keys and put on all the lights at Theodora's house."

Ada was custodian of the emergency keys, since her working hours were so different from everyone else's. She was usually the only person at home on their street, just as she seemed to be that night. She chose Theodora's house because Whitaker's was so close to the main road that it was dangerous for somebody disoriented, and the second level of Will's couldn't be seen among the trees. And she was not sending Mason into Govinda's house without permission, since she was trying to avoid lectures on irresponsibility.

"We need something that makes noise, too!" Mason declared, hopping off the tree house ladder. His hideaway was now lit up with warm lanterns, the electric lamps inside, and candles all along the little balcony railing.

"What have you got?" Ada asked, noticing that the boy's fist was clenched around something.

"Just these," He handed her a string of silver jingle bells from last winter, "I gave my kazoo to Kurt. I'll make my rooster call if I see anything at Theodora's house, and you stay here and ring those."

She smiled and gently took the bells from his hand, thinking it was sweet but silly of him. The bells would not be heard far into the woods, and she had no real intention of ringing them.

But when he hurried away to find the emergency key, she found herself alone in the back yard. And, without knowing why, she stepped forward to stand between two large trees. She beamed the light along the falling night sky, so that it bobbed up and down like a fisherman's buoy.

And she rang the string of bells.

"Lost boy!" She called softly, "It's safe here! Come find me!"


	8. The Pumpkin Thief

The Firebird wasn't exactly what you could call _seedy_, but it did have sawdust on the floor, and didn't serve any drinks with umbrellas in them. It never felt particularly dangerous, though, since its most regular patrons were the men who worked at the mine, and some of the rougher tradesmen from around town.

The bartender was a man named Ivaylo, who wore a glass eye. He was very gruff, but a good listener, and often provided a surprising amount of insight. He was drying glasses with a white rag while Theodora sat on a vinyl barstool. She took small sips from a green beer bottle with a gnome on the label.

"Your friends coming by tonight?" Ivaylo asked, and Theodora nodded.

"Hell of a story about the sleep-walker from the hospital," Said a man a little further down the bar, looking at a copy of the Daily Mirror. He had a dark beard, a wide nose, and a green cap on his head, "Can't say I believe it."

"They didn't print the interesting stuff." She shrugged.

"Oh yeah, sister?" Said the miner, with a hoarse chuckle, "What's the interesting stuff?"

"They found him pretty much dead in the forest," Theodora explained, rolling the beer bottle over in her hands, "Sheriff Graham, and the bounty hunter who got the DUI, and Mary Margaret Blanchard from the school. The sheriff said that they were pretty sure he wouldn't make it, but Mary Margaret just flipped out and started giving him CPR. And now, he's right as rain."

"Sounds like bullshit." The miner nodded.

"He doesn't even have brain damage. They say he has amnesia, but I asked Dr. Whale if it was anterograde amnesia or retrograde amnesia, and he told me it was _general_ amnesia. That's not a real thing."

The stranger graced her with a puzzled expression for a moment, then glanced at the bartender.

"She works for the Mirror." Ivaylo offered with a shrug, handing him a whiskey sour.

"Oh. Yeah." He said as though he no longer cared in the slightest, then picked up his drink and wandered over to a table in the back corner.

"Did I do something wrong?" Theodora asked, watching him go.

"Not at all. Leroy is just one grumpy son of a bitch."

The door opened and closed with a loud creak, and Theodora looked over her shoulder to see Archie Hopper walk in, wearing an expression that was a little tired and a lot worried.

"Oh, shoot!" Theodora said under breath to Ivaylo, "Go to the other side of the bar, so that he doesn't sit here."

Ivaylo smirked and shook his head at her.

"Go!" She urged, "Go! Go!"

"He looks like you should be friends with him, he'll probably try to order milk. Or iced tea."

"I never tried to order _milk_…"

Dr. Hopper sat on a stool a few seats over from Theodora, and didn't seem to notice her at all. He sighed heavily, and loosened his necktie.

"Can I get something with, uh, some gin in it, I guess?" He asked.

Ivaylo grunted a kind of yes, then made a face of comical surprise at Theodora. Thankfully, Dr. Hopper didn't seem to notice the second part.

For a few moments, Theodora considered the ramifications of asking what was up. The major downside being another conversation with Dr. Hopper. The upside being that she might feel like she was being a good citizen, which was something she had been struggling to feel thanks to all of the corruption at work. And especially since she'd be made party to the next morning's extremely trashy headline. But what if he asked her more about Kansas? She didn't have much more to tell him, so it probably wouldn't be too awful. Then again, he was drinking alone in what he probably thought was a very tough bar (admittedly, Theodora thought it was a tough bar as well,) so chances were high that he was trying to avoid sympathetic conversation.

She was saved from having to decide when the door opened again, and Will Meade went straight up to her, plunked onto the stool beside her and said:

"Is Govinda here yet?"

He looked on edge, but excited. Like there was a burst of adrenaline surging through him. He wasn't wearing his usual uniform of a grey work shirt and grass-stained jeans, but instead was dressed all in black.

"No, not yet," She replied, "Why? Is something up?"

"I need him to help me stake-out a pumpkin patch," Will explained, "Did you want to come? It might take until after midnight, and I think you have work in the morning? But you can help if you like."

"Um…" Theodora answered slowly, "_Why_ are you staking out a pumpkin patch? That is, I don't think I can make it, since I do have to work. But I sure would like to know what it's all about."

Further down the bar, Ivaylo handed Dr. Hopper a gimlet, thinking it was the kind of thing a man in a tweed jacket might drink, and nodded at his newly arrived customer.

"The usual, Will?" He asked.

"Not tonight, I've got to keep my wits about me," Will answered, "Do you have a Red Bull? Just by itself, please."

"Yeah. Sure." Ivaylo looked puzzled. Men of conscience ordering gin, and men of action ordering Red Bulls? It was turning into a strange night…

"The pumpkin patch?" Theodora asked Will again, "Why?"

"To catch a very persistent pumpkin thief. Naturally."

The door opened again, and somebody from a table in the corner complained about a draft. Then he sneezed.

"Whose dog is that outside?" Govinda asked, taking off his overcoat and throwing it over his arm.

"Mine," Dr. Hopper replied, swinging around to look at him, "Is he okay?"

"He's fine. I just wondered who he belonged to. He's very well-behaved."

Dr. Hopper nodded and went back to his drink. Govinda made his way over to his friends, and looked at where they were sitting with a sudden and distinct expression of disapproval.

"We're not sitting at the bar, are we?" He sneered, "God, it's filthy."

"We're not sitting at all, really," Will replied, "We are going to Mr. Summers's farm, to hunt a criminal and see justice done. What the sheriff will not do, we shall."

"A quick question," Govinda said, "Just to satisfy my immediate curiosity. Is this the kind of thing the sheriff isn't doing because it's actually quite stupid and ultimately pointless?"

"No. He's not doing it because he's too busy _fraternizing_ with the mayor to look after the concerns of the humble organic farmer. Another symptom of Storybrooke corruption." Will shook his head, then turned to the bartender and tapped the can of Red Bull, "Can I get five more of these? To go?"

Ivaylo nodded.

"It's cheaper if you buy them at the drug store." Theodora offered.

"We don't have time," Will explained, "We need to head out there."

"I'm not going." Govinda said dryly.

"You're a lawyer!" Will replied, as though he had been expecting some resistance, "You are a servant of the law, and the law is being broken. Mr. Summers is having his pumpkins stolen nightly, and that doesn't bother you at all? Don't you realize that to steal a man's pumpkin is to steal his dignity?"

Govinda raised an eyebrow.

"Is Theodora going?"

"No. I have to get up early." She shrugged, helping catch the cans of Red Bull that Ivaylo was sliding across the bar.

"Theodora was invited, but she is not essential," Will added, "You, on the other hand, have shockingly good night-vision. Do you remember what happened to that raccoon that kept getting into your garbage? It was terrifying."

Theodora wordlessly pulled a little blue packet of nylon out of her purse, with a snap button and a piece of ribbon like an umbrella's wrapped around it. She unfastened it, and unfolded it until it became a reusable shopping bag of medium size. Then she carefully put the tall, slim, blue-silver cans inside of it and handed it to Will.

"Thanks," He said to her, then held the bag out to Govinda, "Here. Three of these are yours. It's going to be a long night."

It was a short drive to Mr. Summers' land, and for the last stretch of it, Will shut the headlights on his truck off and rolled up as slowly as he could. It was just after eight, and Mr. Summers had told him that the pumpkins couldn't have been stolen any time before ten, but he wasn't taking any chances.

He parked the truck on the other side of the farmhouse, so that it was well-hidden from the pumpkin patch and the path that led up to it. Then he opened the glove box and pulled out a black scarf and a simple black eye mask he had gotten at the five and dime.

"What the hell are you doing?" Govinda asked, with a certain note of exasperation, as he watched Will don the mask and tie the scarf around the top of his head.

"You don't know this," He replied, "But blond hair is notoriously difficult to make stealthy. I'm merely ensuring that I don't glimmer in the moonlight and give our position away."

"You look like a moron."

Govinda got out of the truck, with a noisy rustle of the bag of energy drinks, and slammed the door so that it echoed out into the silence.

"You're not taking this very seriously." Will noted, shutting his own door as gently as he could.

"Our job is to deter theft," Govinda grumbled, "If the thief knows we're here, he's far less likely to steal."

"Ah, yes!" Will said, as they made their way to their hiding spot, "But only for tonight. I would like to _catch_ this person instead, to discourage them for stealing again tomorrow. So that we don't have to come back out here."

"Stop a man from stealing a pumpkin, and you have saved a pumpkin," Govinda nodded, "But see that a man is punished, and you have saved a whole pumpkin patch."

"…Something like that, yes."

They waited for several hours, sitting in deathly silence among the falling leaves of the apple trees, knocking back Red Bulls.

Finally, a little after one o'clock in the morning, a shape moved in the darkness. The figure tentatively made its way along the path, and at length it drew close enough for Govinda to make out its silhouette.

He pulled himself up and forward until he was crouching like an Olympic runner at the start of a race.

His eyes narrowed.

His muscles tensed in readiness.

"Go around the other side," He said to Will in voice softer and lower than a whisper, but clearer than crystal, "And call out to her. When she runs, I'll intercept."

"It's a woman?" Will replied, in a much less practiced but still very efficient whisper of his own.

"Just do what I tell you."

And so he did. He crept around slowly, making sure not to be caught in the beams of the garden lights he had placed the night before, and waited on the other side of the patch. When the thief came closer into view, her eyes darting back and forth as she neared her next trophy, Will called out:

"Stop right there!"

Which she naturally did the opposite of, and began to flee the scene.

This was the last thing she did that was according to plan.

Instead of running back along the way she came, or towards the street, as Govinda had predicted, she ran straight at the farmhouse. So Govinda, instead of simply intercepting her, was now chasing her. Fuelled by a pure electric bolt of instinct and caffeine.

He hurdled over a small wooden fence, his shiny Hermès loafers hitting the soft ground with a thud. And he kept running, as the dirt flew up around his feet and spattered his trousers and the chilled night air burned his lungs.

Behind him, he could hear the footfalls of Will as he tried to catch up. Ahead of him was his prey.

She was not running with panic, he noticed, but with a specific target in mind. He thought of a small fox-like creature, making its way to a burrow or passage it had made to avoid capture. If his quarry arrived at such a place, she would likely escape.

He scanned the upcoming terrain for hints of where she might go.

"Will!" He called when he saw it, "There's a hole in the fence! Get around to it!"

This did nothing to deter the thief, who called into her final reserve of strength and began sprinting as quickly as she could. She had only two things over her pursuers: the hole in the fence, and her unexpected head-start.

Govinda let out a loud scoff of frustration as she sped up, and began to do the same.

Will, swinging around on a curve he was hoping would bring him to the fence sooner, managed to overtake Govinda.

"I've got her!" He cried, and the thief was now beginning to worry.

She looked over her shoulder to see how far back Will was, and this was the mistake that cost her the race. She veered a little off of her course when she did it, and the time it took her to correct it was all the time Govinda needed to prepare his sudden pounce.

He jumped forward, and tackled the woman to the ground.

She threw dirt in his eyes, punched him in the side of the face, and tried to scramble out of his grasp. But by then Will was upon her as well, and he grabbed her by the wrists and pulled her to her feet.

"I think you've been caught." Will informed her.

Govinda stood up and wiped the dirt out of his eyes. The liveliness of the chase was replaced by his usual dourness now that he had been injured.

The lights in the farmhouse were on, and Mr. Summers was standing on the back porch in his pyjamas, looking very concerned. He looked even more concerned when he saw the woman being brought towards him.

"We have captured your pumpkin thief, sir." Will said, with great satisfaction. And he suddenly remembered the bandit mask and scarf, which he promptly removed.

"Becky?" The old man said, hurt and confused.

"You know this young woman?" Govinda asked.

"She's my daughter," Mr. Summers sighed, "I'll take things from here, I think. Thank you boys for all you did - I'll give you a call tomorrow, Will. The two of you best head home, and get some rest."

Will nodded on behalf of the both of them, and they headed back to the truck in silence as the old man took his daughter inside.

"I don't think he's going to turn her over to the authorities," Govinda said as they drove along the deserted roads of the small town, "We should call the sheriff in the morning."

Will rolled his eyes.

"It's not a matter for the sheriff, it's between the two of them now."

"I thought the whole point of this was justice, and defending the law?"

"I lied to you to get you to go along," Will said, "The whole point of this was that an old man was too frail to protect his crops and it was making me sad. That problem has now been solved, and we are no longer needed."

"Sometimes, I hate you."

Will smiled.

"A lot." Govinda added.


	9. Mr Meade's Red Bull Hangover

_Unwed Mother Gives Birth By Roadside_.

This was the front page headline on the Daily Mirror, and Whitaker Lapin shook his head as he read it. He was sitting in Granny's with Ada and Will, waiting for orders of pancakes, waffles and bacon to be brought. Their booth was one of the ones right by the window, with Ada and Whitaker on one side and Will on the other.

"It seems a little…" He searched for the word he was looking for, "Muckrake-y."

"Did she say anything about it to you?" Ada asked, glancing at the byline that read Theodora Brees.

"I'm sure she had to write it the way Sidney told her to," Whitaker shook his head, "I can't imagine her coming up with a title like this on her own. Most of the article itself is quite even-handed, except for a few digs here and there about that poor Miss Swan. I'm certain our local press has done everything to make that woman feel entirely unwelcome, and I can't for the life of me think why. Did Theodora say anything to you about it, Will?"

Will was sitting with his head in his hands, his elbows on the table, and his face tired and drawn. He didn't seem to have heard the question, so Ada kicked him a little.

"Ouch." He said, very groggily.

"What's with you?" She demanded.

"I was up late," He mumbled, "Seeing justice be done. And I'm never drinking any kind of energy drink ever again."

"Technically, coffee is an energy drink." Whitaker informed him.

"Except coffee," He amended, "Sweet, tender coffee. So kind and good to me."

Alas, his little diner mug was now empty. So he lifted it up and caught Ruby's eye, in order to get a refill. She made her way over with a glass pot full of the sweet elixir of morning, and her expression turned sour when she saw the newspaper on the table.

"You should be ashamed of yourselves," She said with genuine outrage, and snatched the paper off of the table, "Reading crap like this."

She poured Will an almost-full cup, then stormed off and threw the newspaper in a trash bin behind the counter.

"I paid for that…" Whitaker said sadly.

"Your idea to have brunch here?" Will said to Ada, "It was terrible."

"Sue me for trying to change things up." She scoffed.

"Will," Whitaker said suddenly, pulled from a strange line of thinking, "What kind of energy drinks were they?"

"Why?"

"It's just that I'm meeting the deliveries from Boston this week, and most of the fellows like to drink something called Monster to keep awake," He explained, "But if _you_ get sick from them, then they'll probably turn my insides out."

"Do. Not. Drink. Them." Will advised, and dropped his head onto the table.

"Pfft," Ada rolled her eyes, "I drink sugar-free Red Bull all the time, and I'm just fine. It's just like booze - know your limit, and prepare for the hang-over, or crash, or whatever you call it."

Whitaker nodded, but he had already decided that he would be avoiding the unholy beverages in question.

"Hey, I've been meaning to ask," Ada said to him, "How do those deliveries work? Why are they always at night, and what do the drivers actually do?"

"Oh, I absolutely can't tell you that."

"Bullshit. Tell me."

"No, I'm deadly serious," Whitaker shook his head, "If I told you, I would lose my job and be put in jail for five months. You sign a contract when you start work, and there's a city ordinance and everything. Though, honestly, I can't see why they care so much."

"Sometimes this town is so weird…" Ada shook her head.

Ruby turned up with their respective orders, and gave them all such a scathing glare that it was quite possible everything on their plates was covered in a thin coating of saliva.

"Where's the hellion?" Will mumble-asked Ada, barely sitting up so that he was only narrowly avoiding suffocation by scrambled eggs. 'Hellion' was one of his friendlier terms for Mason, when he was in a bad mood. And the constant drumbeat of exhaustion in his ears certainly counted as part of a bad mood.

"Shopping with Captain Humourless," One of Ada's friendlier terms for Govinda, accompanying any temperament, "He needs to get a book to read. He has to do a report for school."

"Good gracious!" Whitaker chuckled, "I wouldn't want to be a book today!"

It actually wasn't so bad being a book that day. It seemed to be going better than it was for the newspapers, and among the shelves of them in a small shop on Main Street, Mason Ringer was showing them an unexpected and benevolent kindness. He'd even selected one among their ranks for his book report, and was bringing it over to Govinda - who was looking at a coffee table book with photos of India in it, and had a rather nasty black eye.

Mason handed him his choice of reading, and Govinda glanced at the title.

_Lord of the Flies_.

"Absolutely not." He said, and handed it back to the now-very-annoyed boy. Mason grumbled some very unflattering things, and resumed his search for something both acceptable and interesting.

Govinda returned to his book, and flipped the page to a glossy and colourful scene of a marketplace. In the center of the marketplace was a rusty cage with a large male tiger in it. For a reason he did not know, this picture made him happy in a very vindictive, and highly unfriendly way. It was such a strange response that he quietly asked himself what had brought it on.

"That tiger looks like he's an asshole." Was his answer, and he mumbled it under his breath without realizing what he was doing.

He felt a set of unfamiliar eyes on him, and that's when he noticed that the shop keeper was giving him one of those strange looks. Govinda raised a challenging eyebrow at her, and she quickly gasped and went back about her work of restocking the shelves.

The photos in the book he held hypnotized him, ever so slightly, so that he lost track of time. He found himself transported to a more natural space. The trees in Storybrooke, he realized, were not really _trees_ to him. They were the things that stood in place of the trees in the images before him.

His phone buzzed in his pocket.

He pulled it out, and discovered that he had a text message from Theodora:

_I'm sick to death of Sidney Glass_.

With a sympathetic little chuckle, he typed out a quick response:

_Everyone else is too_.

Mason re-emerged with a petulant expression and his hands in his pockets.

"I quit." He announced.

"You may not quit." Govinda replied smoothly.

"I can't find anything in this stupid store. And every time I decide to settle for something, you say it's not allowed," He shrugged, "Books aren't for me."

"That's absurd. You love hearing stories, it's one of your favourite activities. Go ask the clerk for recommendations, if you're so stumped."

"I don't want to ask the clerk," Mason whined, "She doesn't know me. She'll tell me to read about that worm in a hat who drives a car shaped like an apple."

"You're getting a little old for that. She'll probably make you read about wizards."

"I _hate_ wizards."

"Miss Blanchard never said you had to like the book," Govinda sighed, "Just find one to read all the way through, read it, and tell her what you thought. You're over-complicating this."

"If it's so easy, you find one." Mason pouted, and went to look at magazines.

Govinda, with grim and terrifying determination, snapped the photography book closed, returned it to its place on the shelf, and went into the children and young adult section.

Fifteen minutes later, he approached Mason at the magazine rack with two options. _Johnny Tremain _and _Tuck Everlasting_.

"Would you like to read about the boy with the deformed hand," He asked, "Or the people who never grow old?"

After it had been decided, they left the bookstore and went for a walk along Main Street. They passed quite a few people reading the Daily Mirror, and every time Govinda caught a glimpse of its sensational headline, his heart sank a little for his friend. Especially since everyone was shaking their heads in disgust - either because they bought into the story, or because they were ashamed it had been printed.

When they came along the pawnshop window, Govinda had an idea.

"We're going in here." He told Mason, and held the door open for him.

"Why?" Mason asked, ducking into the gloomy store. He'd much rather go into the toy store, or the park, or even the jungle gym at school. It was Saturday, so it would be empty, but it would still be better than going into grown-up stores with the least fun person ever.

"I want to ask how much something costs." Govinda replied.

He didn't like the pawnshop. It felt too confining. All of the clutter and the random assortment of wares seemed too unstructured, too much like a treasure horde in a long-forgotten temple. The accumulation of _things_, in place of the accumulation of knowledge. And when all was said and done, nobody around to admire any of it.

There was also an unusual and very distinct odour, which Govinda could very easily imagine leading to a migraine headache. He subconsciously sniffed the air a few times, trying to place the smell, but he couldn't.

"What have you got in your bag?" Mr. Gold asked Mason, making his way out of the backroom.

"Book for school." The boy shrugged.

"Oh, yes? Anything good?"

"I don't know. I haven't read it yet."

Mr. Gold gave a quick, lopsided smile; and he turned his attention to Govinda.

"And what can I do for you this morning, Mr. Jadhav?"

"Those shoes in the window display…"

"I don't think that they'd fit you."

Mason laughed, and looked up at Govinda, whose expression remained so unflinchingly serious, the boy cleared his throat and looked at a spot on the floor.

"I'm asking on behalf of a friend of mine." Govinda explained.

"I'm afraid that those shoes are quite valuable to me," Mr. Gold replied, "I keep them in the window to draw interest, but they aren't for sale."

Govinda was about to say something else - to press the issue, or try to strike some kind of bargain - but something held him back. So he just nodded.

"Do you mind if I ask what you did to your eye?" Mr. Gold tilted his head to one side, and waited for the answer.

"He was trying to stop a girl from stealing, and she punched him in the face!" Mason supplied, almost proudly, on Govinda's behalf.

"Funny," The pawnbroker said, "Something similar happened to me the other night."


	10. What You Wish For

On Sunday afternoon, they stood single file along the perimeter set up by emergency services, right at the front row of the crowd. Whitaker on the far left, then Will, Mason, Ada, Theodora, and Govinda on the opposite side. It was the arrangement that they always seemed to fall into during a crisis, and, in a way they would never speak of to one another, it made them feel strangely united of purpose.

The purpose today was waiting to see if emergency response could get Henry Mills out of the collapsed mine.

Information to the public had been scarce. The group, along with everyone else on the sidelines, had managed to piece together that Henry had gone exploring in a tunnel that had now collapsed. As far as everyone was concerned, the boy was definitely alive and well. It wasn't clear if people were able to communicate with him, and there was some speculation that they'd sent someone else into the mine, and that person had been trapped along with Henry. But that wasn't clear.

What _was_ clear was that the Deputy Sheriff - who was now widely known to the citizens of Storybrooke to be Henry's biological mother - had been put in charge of the situation.

"Does she have experience with this kind of thing?" Ada asked Theodora softly.

"Probably not. She was a bail bondswoman before she came here. But maybe she has some search and rescue training?" Theodora wracked her brain for any recollection of something along those lines, from when everyone on the paper had suddenly been assigned to digging up dirt on Emma Swan.

She came up empty, but decided that it might have been because they'd been told to focus so heavily on negatives. After all, nobody would put her in charge of something like this for no reason. Right?

"Poor Mayor Mills," Whitaker said sympathetically, "She must be terribly worried."

"Yes, I imagine she paid quite a bit for him when he was a baby." Will said.

"That's not fair," Whitaker scolded, "She's probably going through absolute hell right now, and that boy could be in sincere danger. You should be kind."

"You're quite right, and I'm sorry." Will nodded.

"Why did he go in?" Mason mumbled to himself, but nobody paid him any mind.

"Isn't that Dr. Hopper's dog?" Govinda asked, nodding towards Pongo, who was patrolling the edge of the disaster zone, just on the heels of the firemen who were discussing an action plan with the sheriff's office and the mayor herself. Nobody seemed too concerned with the dog.

"It is!" Theodora gasped, "Why is he out there? Where's Dr. Hopper?"

"That dog looks like he's with those firemen," Ada noticed, "Maybe they're using him as part of the rescue?"

"Is Henry dead?" Mason asked nonchalantly.

"No." Everybody told him at once.

"Why did he go in the mine?"

Nobody felt like fielding that one, since the question just hung unanswered in the air. The grown-ups were all lost in their thoughts, and each presumed that someone else would tell Mason the answer.

A familiar face hurried along the edge of the crowd, on the other side of the orange tape that had been set up. It was one of the miners who frequented the Firebird, one of whom Will had happened to loan his cell phone the day before. And, Will decided, it was a perfect time to cash in some courtesy points.

"Excuse me," He said in his absolutely friendliest tones, "Hello. Do you remember me?"

"Oh, yeah," The miner said, "The guy with the phone."

"I know you've probably got a lot going on right now, but the boy here is in Henry's class at school," Here, Will patted Mason on the back, as though they were very good friends who never waged epic battles with one another, "Anything you could tell us about the situation would be useful."

Mason, understanding his role in the charade, then made his saddest possible face and asked:

"Is… Is Henry going to be okay, Mister?"

The miner sighed, and looked touched. He patted Mason on the head.

"Your buddy's going to be just fine," He said, and looked back at Will, "Dr. Hopper went in after him, and that's when the entrance tunnel collapsed…"

"No!" Theodora gasped, very dramatically, and very much by accident.

The miner turned to her, with an inquisitive expression.

"I… didn't know he was down there," Theodora explained, "We saw Pongo, but we thought he was just helping the fire department…"

"Yeah, he's down there," He nodded, "They're alright, though. The tunnels are going to hold, they're pretty sturdy. We're going to try explosives, since using the heavy machinery is what sealed off the entrance. But they've got plenty of air, and they don't seem to be injured."

"Is that safe?" Will asked.

The miner looked at Mason, and the extremely worried expression on Theodora's face.

"Of course it's safe," He said, "I better get going. In a little while, maybe I can send somebody over to give you an update?"

"That would be great, thanks." Will shook his hand, and off the miner went.

Once he was out of earshot, Govinda turned to Theodora and asked:

"Why exactly are you so worked up?"

"Because Dr. Hopper's trapped down there!" She replied, grabbing his arm with an urgent sort of desperation.

"And this is somehow more dramatic than the little boy being trapped down there _alone_, because…?"

"Hey, wait a second," Ada added, "I thought you said Dr. Hopper was an asshole."

"Ada!" Whitaker scolded.

"No," Ada told him, "Those were exact words: Dr. Hopper is an asshole. She totally said it."

"I did," Theodora nodded frantically, "I was _very_ angry with him, and I called him an asshole. Then I ignored him when he was clearly upset, and I wished that a whole bunch of horrible non-lethal things would happen to him."

"Was one of them that he would get trapped in an abandoned mine shaft?" Will asked, seeing where this was going.

"Yes!" Theodora replied, near to tears, "And now, if he dies, it'll be my fault because I wished for it. Oh, this is just the most terrible thing that could have happened. Never ever wish for bad things!"

"There, there." Govinda said, almost completely without any real emotion, as he patted her on the back. He was still unaccustomed to how sensitive his friend became during a crisis, and could never quite bring himself to support her in what he viewed as vaguely lunatic theories on magic.

"Can't you reverse the wish?" Mason asked, "You know, if you wish really hard that he lives?"

"She's already wishing pretty hard for that," Ada told him, "It's like… radiating off of her, in waves of really powerful wishfulness. It's kind of impressive."

"Maybe she should clap her hands, too? Just in case?"

"Do not clap," Govinda told Theodora, "And stop wishing, because it doesn't do anything but make you more upset. Just breathe."

Theodora closed her eyes, and took a few deep breaths.

In and out.

In and out.

She opened her eyes, and very slowly said:

"I'm much calmer now, and it was a little silly of me to think that this was my fault. But I'm going to go on wishing that Dr. Hopper and Henry Mills are both alright, if it's all the same to you."

Govinda made the annoyed little growling sound low in his throat, and he rolled his eyes.

"You know," Will said to him, "Wishing for something is just having conviction under a different vocabulary. And the power of conviction is a truly amazing thing. It allows you to accomplish the inconceivable."

"Would it be better if we changed the subject?" Whitaker offered, and just as he finished asking, the explosion was detonated.

Everyone in the crowd held their breath, watching the tense moment unfolding before them, looking for any signs of triumphant victory - or utter failure - on the faces of the emergency service personnel.

"It didn't work!" Someone further along the front lines gasped.

A rumble of speculation then swept over the bystanders, a mixture of panic and placation in all tones.

"Perhaps it just failed to open a new tunnel," Whitaker was the first among the smaller group to speak, "Occasionally, if you collapse some ground structure in a tunnel system, it just creates a sort of ceiling effect. It would be dangerous to stay beneath it, but they could still be quite safe."

"How do you know so much about tunnels?" Ada asked.

Whitaker shrugged. He couldn't really say. He just did.

"If that were the case," Will asked, "What would they do next?"

"Well, they would have to burrow through the most structurally sound part of the mine," Whitaker absently twisted his wristwatch as he spoke, "Ideally, you would try to get as close to them as possible. But you wouldn't be able to go through the newly collapsed areas. There'd be a chance that whatever machinery you used would just fall through, or that burrowing would cause debris to fall on the people inside. The best choice is to go through the top of an established vertical tunnel. Like an elevator shaft. Or they could go into the main chamber on an angle."

"When you say _burrow_, you mean _drill_, right?" Will clarified.

"Yes. Of course. How silly of me."

Ada glanced over at Theodora, who had gone as white as a sheet and was looking straight ahead at the mine. She recognized the sort of watery look that Theodora's eyes were getting, and attempted some sort of blend of traditional female solidarity and her more natural style of lending support.

"Don't start crying like a little bitch-baby," She warned, "That asshole is going to be fine, and when he gets out of that mine, you can go right on hating his guts."

Even though he knew he wasn't the one being addressed, Mason nodded as though the instructions were for him. He wouldn't ever admit it, but when the explosion had failed, he had become suddenly worried for Henry's life. Not out of a realization of friendship, or anything so sentimental. But because Henry, for all his attempts otherwise, was a boy - and his loss might come as a blow to the others in Mason's gang.

And still, the mystery that had been tugging at his mind all day wouldn't let him be.

Why had Henry gone into the mine? If it had been any other kid, Mason would have believed the hand-wave answer of the call of adventure or wanting to see some ghosts. But Henry did not play like a normal boy. He was so far removed from being a normal boy, that the first person to go into that mine to save him was _his therapist_.

What had Henry been looking for?

"What kinds of things are in a mine?" He asked out loud.

"Um, little square carts for pushing things around," Will guessed, "Pickaxes. Lanterns. Empty canary cages, probably. Large piles of whatever they mine here. Tourmaline? I think it might be that."

"I'm fairly confident that this is not a tourmaline mine." Govinda smiled at him coldly.

"Then, by all means, what kind of mine is it?"

Govinda pondered this for a moment, and realized that he also didn't know.

"Gold." He said, confidently.

While the grown-ups argued about who was being more ridiculous, Mason was seriously considering both possibilities. He had no idea what tourmaline was, but pictured it something like a fossil. Henry would not risk his life for fossils, because there was a time when the boys in his class we discussing resurrecting a dinosaur to eat their substitute teacher, and Henry hadn't shown any interest in the plan at all. And he would not go chasing gold, since his mother was very rich and spoiled him all of the time.

The mystery remained.

"Is that the drill? It looks more like a… big hook…" Theodora asked, pointing to a large machine that was slowly being driven to where Pongo was barking at something.

"Why don't they get that dog out of the way?" Ada shook her head, "He could get hurt."

"He probably knows where to dig," Theodora explained, "Dogs are very good at that."

As they attached the hook and chain to a truck, Whitaker turned his head away.

"Good gracious, I can't watch!"

"I've never felt so useless in all of my life…" Will mumbled.

The silence of anticipation fell upon the onlookers again while they waited for the outcome of the next attempt. Unnecessary personnel cleared the area. The engine of the truck roared, and the fencing wedged between two large pieces of debris gained enough leverage to push them apart.

"Please work…" Theodora wished as deeply as she knew how to.

All eyes in the crowd watched with a mixture of fascination and dread, and there was some murmurs of surprise as Emma Swan was fitted with the harness to lower her into the mineshaft.

"She _must_ have some search and rescue training," Govinda decided, "They wouldn't let her go in if she didn't."

And since he was the only one who had spoken amid the tense silence of the crowd, even the strangers around them nodded their agreement.

The waiting was agonizing. The seconds took minutes, and the minutes took hours.

Very quietly, and with as small a motion as he could, Mason began clapping his hands to the same beat as his heart. Ada put her hand on his back and left it there.

"She's got them!" One of the workers called from the drill site, smiling as bright as the sun and waving his hands over his head, "She did it!"

There were cheers and applause, and the far away figures were wrapped in blankets. Theodora let out a long breath, relaxed her shoulders and let her head hang for a few seconds.

"Good. That's done," Govinda said, "Let's go eat."


	11. Might As Well

Mason had laid himself down on the scruffy, soft, unmade cot that took up one corner of his tree house. The candlelight from the outside lanterns was flickering and fading, but he didn't want to put the electric lamp on. He liked the soft amber flames, and he liked watching them dance as he drifted off to sleep.

On the walls above him were drawings he had done, right onto the wood of the wall, with a permanent marker. They were neatly organized into rows, and had the simplicity and narrative of ancient cave art. Most of them featured a little boy, and a fairy nearby him. Mason had never told anyone - it seemed very girlie and a little babyish - but he loved fairies.

He tossed and turned more than usual, even though he had to get up for school in the morning. And he knew he'd need to take a shower, since it was getting too cold too keep sleeping outside. If he took a hot shower, it would warm him up in the mornings before anyone could notice how chilled his skin was. He might get a couple more weeks before people started making him sleep in his bedroom.

It wasn't the cold that bothered him, though.

It was an idea.

Henry Mills had gone into that mine for _something_. Mason had heard from one of the other children that Henry had been making a spectacle of himself the day before; during his mother's speech, he begged her not to pave over the big hole in the ground. He kept saying that there was something down there.

Mason wanted to know what it was.

After a few more tosses and turns, he sat up and kicked all of his blankets off. The desire to have the mystery solved would not leave him alone. Normally, he would have gone to ask Ada for advice, but this didn't seem like the kind of problem she was good at. It called for a more practical mind.

He went out to the balcony and blew out all the lanterns except one, which was in a small glass jar with a honeycomb pattern on it. He put down the ladder, held the candle in one hand, and made his way down to the ground.

The grass was cold and hard. Not yet crunching with frost, but it would be soon.

"I should have brought my sneakers." The boy said to nobody at all, and looked around the deep shadows of the forest to get his bearings. The particular tree he wanted could be tricky to find, especially in the dark, when he couldn't use the glass house to orient him.

He wove between the tree trunks, walking in total silence, the little lantern casting strange shadows like a kaleidoscope, until he found what he was looking for. A giant white pine, with an enormous trunk and thick wide limbs, its needles soft as velvet and so dense that the stars above couldn't be seen between them.

Mason peered at the lower branches, but they all seemed to be empty. Maybe it really was getting too cold.

Just as he was turning to leave, a powerful arm reached down and grabbed the back of his T-shirt. With a slight tug against his neck, he was suddenly up off the ground, then on a sturdy limb looking into the strange pale eyes of Govinda Jadhav.

"You're supposed to be asleep." Govinda said. He was sat as casually as you like, with one leg dangling off the branch and the other curled beneath him.

Mason was not the only person on their street who spent his summer sleeping in trees. It had never been discussed openly, though Govinda was positive that everyone knew and nobody was talking about it out of politeness. And the only person who had ever come across him at night was the boy - probably because everyone else was sleeping in their houses. Like sane people.

"I have a problem, and I wanted to ask you about it."

This caused Govinda to raise an eyebrow, which managed to look very intimidating thanks to the flickering candlelight.

"I think that there's something in the mine," Mason explained, "Something important, that would help us do what we're supposed to do."

"Do what we're supposed to do?"

"Yeah. Don't you ever get the feeling that we're all… on a mission? But it's like we forgot it? I've been feeling that way a lot lately, and I think that part of what we're supposed to do is buried in the mine."

Govinda looked at him for a long while.

He had indeed felt as though he was part of a forgotten mission, ever since the strange morning where he had woken up with the sudden urge to assassinate Regina Mills. He had since dismissed it as the usual small town malaise. Everyone wanted to kill their mayor sometimes. It was normal. But now that Mason was talking about it, so plainly, it seemed correct.

And it was odd that it seemed correct.

"What is it?" He asked.

"What is what?" Mason wrinkled his face up in puzzlement.

"What is the thing buried in the mine?"

"I don't know. That's what's driving me nuts. I bet if I had it to look at, everything would be really clear."

"You can't go, it's too dangerous," Govinda said, looking off into the night, "And they're going to start paving it over tomorrow. Go home and sleep. I'll figure something out."

Mason looked at him skeptically.

"You promise you're going to actually do something?"

"I promise."

Govinda helped Mason back down the tree, and watched the lantern bobbing in the distant direction of the tree house. When he was confident that the boy had gone completely, he walked out of the forest and into his own backyard. For a moment he paused, organizing the order in which things would be done.

Then, he began to put that order in motion.

Across town, on the road that led to Boston if you stayed on it long enough, parked next to the city limit sign, was Whitaker Lapin in his courier van. Even though it was past midnight, he was wearing his work uniform. He was writing notes on his clipboard, waiting for the next delivery. After it, he would be done for the night.

The trucks from Boston came between ten o'clock at night and one o'clock in the morning, which wasn't the most unusual part. The fact that they always transferred their cargo from their trucks to ones from within the city limits was the strangest part. It was actually illegal for the delivery trucks to drive beyond the sign.

It was not unheard of for small towns in Maine to have silly old laws and regulations in their town charters, but most of them either ignored those laws or had them repealed. Storybrooke, however, took its crazy old laws very seriously.

So Whitaker, by virtue of schedule rotation, was forced to sit out on a lonely and notoriously dangerous road in the middle of the night. Alone. His only protection a flashlight, a ballpoint pen, his Taser, and an impressive willingness to hit an assailant with his vehicle.

He was, true to his nature, terrified.

This terror was not alleviated in any way when his cell phone made the little beep-boop noise that meant he had a text message. He did not usually get texts. Especially not so late at night.

He looked at his phone.

The message was from Govinda, and it read:

_Are you still at work?_

Whitaker replied:

_Yes is something wrong? _

A pause. Then another message from Govinda:

_Meet me at the abandoned mine in forty minutes._

Whitaker's heart seemed to beat so fast that it stopped for a moment as he stared at the ominous message. So this was it, he thought. It had finally come.

With a sudden burst of defiant courage he typed out a reply:

_Are you going to murder me?_

But he didn't send it. He just held his thumb over the send button, worried that he would only embarrass himself by overreacting. Still, the mine was a very good place to hide a body. Especially since they were filling the whole thing with cement the next morning…

In the end, he just decided to accept his fate and sent back a humble _O.K_. If not now, it would happen later. Perhaps in a way that gave Whitaker less of a chance, or a way that came suddenly and without warning.

On the other side of the communication, Govinda found himself very much relieved that Whitaker had agreed to help him. He was more than slightly claustrophobic, and the more people he could convince to go into the tunnels _instead _of him, the better.

Which was had brought him to Will's door. He rang the bell and waited, wondering why nobody he knew could ever answer their door promptly. He had forgotten what time it was.

The downstairs light went on, and a bleary-eyed Will opened the door with a baseball bat in one hand.

"Oh, it's you," He groaned, "What do you mean coming over here unannounced at this time of night? I thought you were a home invader."

"Home invaders don't ring the bell."

"The courteous ones do."

Govinda rolled his eyes. Everyone he knew was a clown.

"Do you still have that stupid mask of yours? From the stake-out?" He asked.

"Yes…?"

"You might want to bring it. I'll wait here while you get dressed."

"This may come as a surprise to you," Will replied, "But you haven't actually told me what's going on. At all. And I'd like to know, so that I can agree to participate or decline at my discretion."

"I'm cashing in my favour. You said that you owed me one, and after this you won't. Go get ready."

Never ask a lawyer to help you do something fun. It turns into some kind of contract for later obligations. Will sighed with great annoyance, and nodded reluctantly as he headed back up the stairs.

"Oh!" Govinda snapped his fingers and called after him, "Do you have any sturdy rope? And maybe some flashlights?"

"Check the shed!" Will called back, pulling off his t-shirt as he nudged the door to his bedroom open. He paused, the shirt half way over his head.

Sturdy rope?

Outside, Govinda was already beginning his rummage through the various supplies in the garden shed. He had several coils of rope, of various widths, slung over one arm; and he was trying to decide if he needed both of the large, emergency flashlights. One would probably do. There was also a first aid kit; the kind that came in the big red bag, and had glow sticks and a space blanket in it. Govinda took it, just to be on the safe side.

He was loading all of this into the back of his car when Will walked over. By then he had dressed in his official sneaky-business uniform, minus the mask. Since he didn't know what they were doing he had opted not to wear it. After all, he didn't want to look out of place.

"Don't you want to take the truck?" He asked.

"No, I want a quieter engine. We need to be like a shadow."

"What the hell for?"

"I'll tell you once it's impossible for you to extract yourself from the situation," Govinda explained, "It's called being on a need-to-know basis."

"That is so massively incorrect, I don't even know where to begin…" Will shook his head as he got into the passenger's seat and fastened his seatbelt.

Over at the mine, Whitaker was already pulling up in his truck. He knew he was early, but he'd met the last of the deliveries that night, and didn't think that he would have time to unload at the warehouse and get out to the rendezvous point in time. Besides, if his coworkers arrived in the morning and found that he had never checked in, or that his truck was missing, they would think to search for him.

He wouldn't mind being dead, he supposed, as long as his body was properly taken care of.

"Hi!" A friendly voice piped up, and Whitaker nearly jumped out of his skin.

"Mason?" He balked, looking at the young boy standing right next to his truck, "What are you doing out here? Did you miss all of that hullabaloo where a little boy almost _died_ playing around here?"

"I wanted to see what Govinda is going to do," Mason shrugged, "He promised he'd do something, so I want to know what it is."

"Do something about what?" Whitaker asked, and then came about his senses, "My goodness! It's nearly one o'clock in the morning! Did you walk out here by yourself? Shouldn't you be in bed? Where are your shoes? Get into this van at once! At once! I am taking you home."

"Don't give yourself a heart attack," Mason replied with a note of annoyance, "I _did_ walk out here by myself, and if you try to get rid of me, I'll just do it again. I _should _be in bed, but I'm obviously not. My shoes are in my tree house because I forgot them, and you're not taking me home. It would be a waste of everybody's time."

Whitaker could never understand how people got through conversations with Mason. He was sincerely tempted to just drive away, and leave the boy for Govinda to deal with when he showed up.

"This is because they let you run wild. Like some feral child on the news…"

"Maybe." Mason shrugged.

Govinda's black sedan rolled up slowly, it's tires still making dragging noises on the gravel parking area. It stopped, and sat still for a long time. This looked rather ominous to Whitaker and Mason, but it was really because Will was demanding to know why he had been brought to the abandoned mine, and what Whitaker was doing there.

Govinda did not tell him.

They got out of the car and walked over to where the courier truck was parked. It was then that Govinda was on an angle to see the boy, who had been specifically ordered home to bed. He was not pleased.

"Part of our arrangement was that you would go home." He said to Mason, causing Will to feel even more confused.

"I didn't realize it was part of an arrangement," Mason explained, "I thought it was a suggestion."

"If you don't mind my asking," Will said, for what seemed to him like the millionth time that night, "What are we doing? Exactly. With as many details as possible, please."

"There…" Govinda began, very slowly, dragging the word out while he collected his thoughts, "Is something important inside the mine. We need to get at it before they pour in the concrete, so tonight is our last chance. I called Whitaker, because I knew he was still awake and because he seemed to know so much about tunnels. I brought you, because you're the one going inside."

Will waited, maybe for Govinda to ask if that was okay, maybe for him to explain why he had chosen Will. He didn't seem to have anything more to say.

"You do realize that this is insane?" Will asked.

"Yes."

"And I take it you're not going to bother telling me what, exactly, I'm supposed to look for?"

"At this point, that's actually a little up in the air," Govinda said, glancing at Mason, "You'll likely know it when you see it."

"If you don't want to go, I can do it." Mason offered.

Will looked over his shoulder at the dilapidated rubble. In the dark of night, it looked like the shadow of crumpled paper. It seemed in no way safe.

But he suspected that this was an important step in his quest to restore his happiness.

"Give me the flashlight." He said.


	12. Friends You Can Count On

Whitaker examined the area first, using his strange and instinctual expertise to asses the safest possible way for Will to go. They had tied the rope around his waist, and Will and Govinda held onto it tightly, ready to yank him back at a moment's notice.

"You can't go into the crevasse they opened with the wedge," Whitaker explained from the wreckage, "It leads right into a dead drop. I do believe it is the elevator shaft. We'll have to find another tunnel, or crack one open. And I certainly don't think we have the equipment for that…"

He stepped his way back very carefully, and when he came to where the others were standing, he untied the rope.

"I don't think it can be done," He said, "Not without knowing exactly where the original tunnels were."

An unexpected amount of disappointment hung over the air. All of them had been anticipating the discovery they would make, and hoping for it to shed some light on the recent strangeness in their lives. The four of them stood thoughtful and silent, wondering if they should start feeling resigned yet.

A glimmer flashed in Will Meade's eyes. He turned his head to look at the nearby foreman's trailer.

It was a long low rectangle of corrugated steel, with a rust red door with a bevelled glass window and a sign on it that read _Closed_.

"What if you had a map of the original mine?" He asked, a grin taking over his face, "Could you figure it out then?"

"Well, quite honestly," Whitaker replied, "A map would be extraordinarily useful, but it would only solve half of the problem. We would still be missing the equipment required to _create_ a new entrance."

"How about the digger?" Mason suggested, nodding at the shadow of the great machine that sat across the yard from them. He was hoping that someone would volunteer him to operate it. Or else not object to him being the one to operate it. Either was fine.

"They had to stop using the digger when they were trying to save Harry and the doctor," Govinda shook his head, "It didn't work."

"It didn't work because if it caused a collapse, it would crush the people inside," Whitaker reminded him, "But there isn't anybody inside it now. A collapse wouldn't do any harm. Provided we knew where to dig."

"That settles it." Will nodded, and made his way over to the trailer.

He switched on the small flashlight that Whitaker had traded him in exchange for the large one earlier, and examined the door. It had an old-fashioned inside bolt on it, and a gap between the door and the jamb where Will could actually see the bar if he pushed the door in a little. He cursed himself for not insisting on bringing his truck instead of Govinda's car, because then he would have had clippers on hand and could just cut the lock off.

"What are you doing?" Govinda demanded, following along with the others.

"Getting a map of the tunnels. Obviously," Will thought about what he needed to do in order to accomplish his goal, and the solution came to him quickly, "Mason, go get the sweater on the backseat of Govinda's car."

"I'm not cold." Mason lied.

"It's not for you, it's so I can break the window."

"That's illegal!" Govinda cried, and realizing how loud he had been, lowered his voice dramatically, "You cannot break into that office. It would be a felony."

"Crime sprees are the punctuation of a life in action." Will said proudly, and by then Mason had already retrieved the sweater.

It was charcoal grey and made of cashmere.

"That sweater cost me three hundred dollars." Govinda groaned, and closed his eyes as Will wrapped it around his hand.

Will punched through the glass of the door, and it fell into the trailer with a smash.

"Awesome!" Mason cheered.

"That's why you shouldn't spend so much money on your clothes," Will handed the sweater to Govinda, and reached through the broken window to unbolt the door, "You never know what state your friends will return them in."

"That's why you should never _lend people_ your expensive things," Govinda corrected, "You never know who'll use them in a robbery."

"I think this is fun!" Whitaker declared, and was the first to go into the newly burglarized trailer.

"You two stay out here," Will told Mason and Govinda, "Then you can claim ignorance of our actions."

"You used my sweater. We watched you break in. It's already over for us."

"Speak for yourself," Mason scoffed, "I'm a minor being misguided by my only male role models."

"You look up to me as a role model?" Govinda smiled.

"Only when they're asking me about it in court."

There were two desks inside the trailer. One looked like it belonged to an accountant, or at least Will guessed that it belonged to an accountant. It had about four calculators on it, and a large book full of numbers that didn't interest him in the least. Which meant that the other desk, which he turned and shined his flashlight on, was the one with the maps or blueprints or whatever they would need.

And indeed it was. The top of it was covered with a laminated map, printed in grey and blue and yellow, of the mineshaft network below ground. There were notations in red whiteboard pen on top of the laminated surface, but the notes meant nothing to Will. There was a metal geometry compass on its side next to one of the notes, and it reminded Will very strongly of something just out of his memory's reach.

He focused on it, forcing himself to concentrate on what was on the very edge of his mind.

A sea chart. A map with countries and islands in bright candy colours. A navigational compass right on the same part of the map as the geometry compass was now.

He had been wearing black then, too.

"Will?" Whitaker said, from a million miles away.

Will snapped out of the trance, and realized that he'd been standing like a statue, with the flashlight pointed on the wrong part of the desk.

"Sorry," He shook himself back into reality, "I just had the strangest bit of déjà vu…"

Whitaker looked a little worried.

"Good gracious, I hope it wasn't from the last time you broke into a mining operation's field office."

"Of course," Will joked, "This is how I spend my Tuesday nights now."

"I wouldn't be too surprised," Whitaker replied, and motioned him over to get a better look at the map, "This is probably the best spot."

He pointed to a set of squiggly lines that meant pretty much nothing to Will, who nodded helpfully anyway.

"The elevator is over here," Whitaker went on, placing his finger on another part of the map, "Which means that this entry point is going to be…oh…"

He looked out of the window to get his bearings.

"Right where you parked."

"We needed to move the cars anyway - they should be somewhere less visible from the main road. If we star that digger and it wakes up half of Storybrooke, we're going to need an escape route. Particularly since we won't know if the sheriff is coming until he's out here."

"There is one way to know…" Whitaker said cryptically, then ducked out of the trailer. Will was not far behind him.

"Did you figure it out?" Govinda asked.

"A good chunk of it, yes." Will replied.

"Mason, you like to thwart Sheriff Graham," Whitaker said to the boy, "How would you like to be in charge of a very important part of our mission?"

"The whole mission was my idea!" Mason nodded excitedly, "I _should_ be in charge of something!"

"Wonderful, wonderful," Whitaker smiled, "There's a radio in my van, and when it's put on a certain channel, it picks up static from the radio in the police cruiser. We're going to move both cars so that they're sitting along that back road over there, and then I'll turn the radio to the right channel. If you hear the static, you honk the horn so we don't get arrested."

Mason agreed, and he rode in the front of Whitaker's van as they moved the vehicles so that he could get a more detailed explanation of his duties. Govinda drove his own car, and Will stayed behind to go take a good look at the controls of the digger.

It looked much more complicated than he was anticipating.

"So, it turns out," He said to Govinda and Whitaker when they rejoined him, "That this needs a key."

Finding the key ended up being the east part. It was in one of the desk drawers in the office; the drawer was locked, but it wasn't very difficult to break into. The hard part was deciding who would operate the digger. At length, they agreed on Govinda. They told him it was because he was the best driver, though this was patently untrue. It was really because he hadn't actually participated in any of the illegal activities of the evening so far.

If he was guilty of grand theft digger, and whatever destruction of property charges might apply, he'd be just as balls deep in the whole mess as the guys who broke into the office. Twice. Or so went the thinking behind Will and Whitaker's silently exchanged glances.

When he fired up the engine, it roared and sputtered so loudly that Whitaker nearly died of nerves. How could people _not_ hear that? He wondered how far away the nearest houses really were, and kept looking over at his van. Mason was watching the proceedings with rapt attention, but didn't seem to being hearing anything over the radio.

The bucket of the digger collided with the ground after a few awkward jerks. It slammed through the concrete in jagged chunks, making an enormous racket.

When Whitaker finally signalled at Govinda to stop, they all waited with bated breath.

Was the jig up? Had the extreme amount of noise alerted the whole town to their activities?

The only sound to be heard was a few crickets chirping.

"Well," Will sighed heavily and with great resignation, "I suppose it's time for me to start searching. In the collapsed mine. At night. By myself."

"I'll give you a walkie-talkie from the van, and talk you through the map." Whitaker said, looking very much saddened by the inevitable loss of his friend.

Govinda held one end of the rope, while Will tied the other around his waist. He knew that the rope probably would not save him from any kind of danger, but it still felt better to go with it than without it. On his belt was clipped a small, hand sized walkie-talkie, that liked to make little bursts of static every now and again.

On the edge of the tunnel entrance, which would not be very easy to climb into, Will suddenly found himself in possession of a super-human amount of determination. Down in the depths of the mines, glowing and shimmering in the dark, was the first piece of the ultimate puzzle. The thing, delicate and crystalline, that would bring him _home_.

He went to fetch it.

It went easier than they were expecting - for the first little while, at least. Whitaker did his best to sound confident of his instructions, and Will was quite good at calmly describing his surroundings. There were a few times when a tunnel was blocked off, or caved in, but they found their way around those.

Then, Mason honked the horn in the delivery van.

"What was that?" Will's voice crackled over the radio.

"The signal!" Whitaker gasped, hurrying out to where Govinda was holding the safety rope, "The sheriff is coming! Will, I don't know what to do!"

"We have to go." Govinda announced, dropping his end of the rope into the hole so that it couldn't be seen without looking for it.

"Good gracious!" Whitaker cried.

There was a pop of static on the radio.

"Did Govinda just let go of my rope?" Will asked over the channel, "He just let go of my rope, didn't he?"

"Stop that thing from making noise!" Govinda commanded, as they ran towards where the cars were hidden.

Whitaker nodded, nervously, and switched the walkie-talkie to _off. _

"Do you want me to fight the sheriff?" Mason offered, as they climbed into the van and waited. "Wait, where's Will?"

"We left him in the mine," Govinda explained quietly, "He wasn't done searching. Once the sheriff is gone, I'll go back and get him."

Graham arrived at a leisurely pace, since he wasn't taking the noise complaint particularly seriously. He pulled up to the area, and scanned the ground with his flashlight. No empty beer bottles, or wax paper litter, or anything else that would indicate teenagers running around. He did a quick check, making sure that none of the machinery was out of the yard, or crashed into a tree. Everything was relatively where it ought to be, and there weren't any keys in any of the ignitions. (This was thanks to Govinda putting the digger keys into his pocket after driving it, a habit he had with all of his keys.)

After taking another quick look around, Graham switched off his flashlight, stuck his hands in his pockets and started to head back to the car. He walked past the foreman's trailer, and was just shy of noticing the broken window when the ground around the mine let out a creaking groan, like the top of it was shifting under the weight of the recent collapse.

Graham nodded. The strange noises of the ground settling was probably what had sparked the complaint he'd received. He went back to his car without noticing anything else.

Once he had driven out of sight, and out of range of the static in Whitaker's van, the two men and the boy shyly made their way over to the mine. Hoping that the crumbling noises had nothing to do with Will being smushed to death.

"That was an excellent example of friendship," Will said, from just inside the tunnel, "I want you to know how proud I am to know you. Now, one of you catch the other end of this rope, and I'll show you what I found down here…"


	13. Second Impressions

Sometimes, on a slow news day, Theodora would go into the only vegetarian restaurant in Storybrooke; which was small and unpopular, and operated out of a space so cramped that there was only enough room for two tables. She ordered a pair of smoothies, one strawberry and one watermelon, and made some cheerful conversation with the server while the blender ran noisily in the background. One of the benefits of Theodora's mini-boycott of Granny's diner was that she got to try a lot of crazy food, and had earned some serious brownie points with the less popular establishments in town.

She promised to try the new tofurky hot dogs with the gluten-free buns next time she had the chance, took her smoothies with a grateful smile, and headed down to the Storybrooke Arcade.

"So. Tell me what's up." Theodora said as she handed the strawberry smoothie to Ada, who was waiting for her at the door.

Being bestest girlfriends was not a priority for either woman, and they usually only spent time together when fate had put them in the same room. Which was often enough, since they knew all of the same people and lived in a small town. Occasionally, when one of them had done something either particularly embarrassing or difficult to explain to the men in their group, they'd arrange to get together. But it was pretty unheard of for one of them - particularly Ada - to call the other and suggest her popping by with a beverage.

Unless something was up.

"Mason stayed home sick today." Ada announced, pulling a set of keys from her back pocket and unlocking the door to the arcade.

"Well, that's not so strange. He gets sick sometimes," Theodora replied, following her inside, "Maybe it's too cold to let him sleep in that tree house anymore."

Inside was always dusty, and always smelled like a strange mix of penny candies and cigar smoke. Theodora had never been able to figure out why that was, since it was illegal to smoke in public places, or establishments that catered to children. Govinda told her about it once. At length.

Ada flicked a set of switches behind a hidden panel in the wall near the door, and dim fluorescent lights began to hum overhead.

"First of all," She said, "Don't tell me how to look after my boy, or I will slap you so hard that the people back in Kansas will feel it. Second, the weird thing isn't that he's sick, the weird thing is how Govinda _reacted_ to his being sick."

"Did he come over and take Mason's temperature and blood pressure, or check if his sinuses were sufficiently swollen?"

"No."

The women stood in contemplative silence, each staring at a different spot on the floor with a concerned look on her face. One of them leaned against the glass booth where kids went to get change for a dollar bill, the other against the side of an old pinball machine.

"That _is_ weird." Theodora nodded.

"He didn't even come over at all," Ada shook her head, "I phoned him, and told him I thought Mason wasn't feeling well, and he said that it was fine, and he would call the school. And then he said he would check on Mason in a couple of hours."

"Just like that?"

"Just like that."

"He didn't complain, or argue that you were being too soft, or remind you that absences from school were very serious things?" Theodora now seemed highly skeptical of the story.

"Nope," Ada said, "He didn't even give me a hard time about interfering with his business hours by making him check up on the kid. He _offered_ to go over while I was at work."

"Something's up." Theodora decided, as Ada went about opening the rest of the arcade for the day.

"Hell yeah something's up."

"Will and I were supposed to have coffee today. Whitaker usually joins us, but he has the nightshift all week. And then this morning, Will called and cancelled. Which wasn't too odd before, but now…"

She bit her lip thoughtfully as she trailed off.

"Now _what_?" Ada folded her arms across her chest.

"Well, last week, Will showed up at the Firebird and bought six Red Bulls, and took Govinda out to guard a pumpkin patch in the middle of the night."

"Seriously?"

"Cross my heart."

"You know what this means, don't you?" Ada asked snippily, "It means they went out and did something super-fun and stupid last night, and Mason followed them. And they didn't invite us."

"I probably would have said no," Theodora said, "But I would have liked it if they'd asked me…"

"I'm not going to forgive them."

They chatted for a few more minutes, as Ada finished getting ready to open the doors for the day. Each of them kicking around some different theories about how their friends had spent the previous night, but neither coming very close to the truth at all.

Ada pulled a chain cord that led to a neon _Open_ sign, pulled the murky glass double doors open and kicked a doorstopper beneath each of them.

"Well," Theodora said, glancing at a black cat clock on the wall, "I'd better go see if Sidney's dug anything up for me to write about. But I doubt it."

"If you get around to it, grill one of the boys." Ada said, taking her place behind the cash register.

Theodora smiled, and headed onto the street, still holding her half-full smoothie.

All at once, she was knocked almost to the ground, and the pinkish goop inside her cup sloshed out and covered the front of her shirt.

"I'm so sorry!" A familiar voice said, a hand grabbing her arm to steady her, "I wasn't looking where I was going!"

Theodora looked into the apologetic expression of Dr. Hopper, and noticed the copy of the Daily Mirror in his hand.

She wondered why she had been so averse to his being trapped underground before.

"Are you okay?" Ada called listlessly from inside, not bothering to leave her seat or even crane her head out of the window.

"I'm _covered_ in smoothie." Theodora replied, completely exasperated.

This was enough to get Ada outside like a flash, since the spectacle now merited some sort of visual record.

"Oh, man!" She smiled joyously, "It was Dr. Hopper? That's just… rich. That is so rich. I'm taking a picture with my phone."

And then she did indeed pull out her phone and snap a photo.

"I feel terrible," Dr. Hopper was saying, as Theodora tried to wipe some of the goop off of herself, "My office is just down the street…"

"It's fine," Ada told him with a delighted smirk, "I have a spare shirt in the back."

"Yeah," Theodora said, "I'm going to need that. Quickly. This is actually very cold."

"Is there anything I can do?" Dr. Hopper asked.

"Could you stay here for a few minutes and make sure teenagers don't rob me?" Ada replied, with a nod towards the change booth.

"Sure."

She hurried Theodora to the grungy back room, and opened a creaky locker. After a few seconds of rummaging, she produced a garment that Theodora barely recognized as a shirt.

"That's all you've got?" She asked, trying not to sound too disappointed.

"Uh-huh," Ada nodded, having expected a reaction along those lines, "We can't all dress like we're… you."

In the end, she had struggled for a witticism that captured Theodora's personal style. The girl wore denim, but it was never edgy; she wore prints, but they were always uninteresting; she dressed to suit her figure, but never to accentuate it. And even though she owned several pairs of amazing shoes, it always seemed like she wasn't wearing the _right_ pair of amazing shoes.

In short, Ada found her friend's personal style to be both boring and disappointing.

"Take it or leave it." She held the shirt out to Theodora, who reluctantly grabbed it and ducked into the staff bathroom.

"This is so gross," Theodora observed, trying to get out of her original shirt without getting any residual smoothie in her hair, "I think this blouse is ruined. Do you know if watermelon juice stains?"

"Man, I still can't believe it was Dr. Hopper," Ada chuckled, "It's like he's trying to make you hate him."

"It was an accident."

"Are you pissed off at him?"

"No."

"Are you lying?"

Ignoring the question, Theodora stepped out of the washroom in her change of clothes, looking quite uneasy. It could have been much worse, under the circumstances. The top was not her style, or a good colour on her, but it had sleeves and wasn't particularly low-cut.

"Is it okay?" She asked nervously.

"That looks _so_ much better on me."

After establishing that there was no back door, that Ada wasn't going to shoo Dr. Hopper and signal Theodora when he was gone, or any similar plan where she'd get to avoid another awkward social confrontation, they emerged back into the arcade.

"Thanks for watching the counter." Ada smiled at Dr. Hopper, then took her place behind the glass and waited. Like a theatre patron anticipating a show.

"I feel terrible," He said to Theodora, who was clearly contemplating just making a run for it, "Would you let me buy you another, um, smoothie?"

Theodora flashed Ada an expression that could only mean: _For the love of god, help me_!

Ada replied with a silent expression of her own, that clearly meant: _I would if it wasn't so damn funny_.

"Uh, I…" She stammered, "I… should probably go back to work?"

"You can't go back dressed in something cute," Ada smirked, "Sidney'll just send you home anyway."

"Please?" Dr. Hopper smiled, "I don't know how else to make it up to you."

"O…kay…" Theodora said, like the word was a knife slowly being driven into her stomach. She tried to look friendly anyway. It came out mostly like a begrudging grimace.

"Great!" Dr. Hopper said, with a smile of relief.

Ada pulled out her phone and snapped another picture, just as the pair was walking away. Perhaps one day, when she was not so mad at them for having fun without her, she would show the photos to Mason and Govinda. But for now, she was content to keep them to herself. As a reward for being such a good friend to Theodora.

"I kept meaning to get in touch with you," Dr. Hopper said, as the two of them headed to the little vegetarian restaurant, "The last time we talked, you were so upset…"

"It's fine." Theodora said, waiting for something or someone to show up and suddenly save her from the conversation.

"I got pretty distracted after that, though. A lot's been going on with me. So, I'm sorry."

"Yeah," Theodora nodded, "It's okay. I didn't… particularly _want_ to talk to you."

"Oh."

"It's just," She hesitated, once again feeling very guilty for being less than fond of the man, "In general, you don't want your first impression to be asking about a traumatic childhood memory. It's not a good way to start out. You should actually wait at least a few months before you start bringing that stuff up with casual acquaintances."

Rather unexpectedly, he chuckled and nodded.

"Sometimes I forget how to talk to people who aren't my patients. I don't get a lot of chances to make new friends. I guess I'm rusty." He confessed.

"You want to hear something funny?" Theodora replied, trying to lighten things so that they could end at least one conversation without somebody in tears, "I didn't even know you were a psychologist, not for a long time. I thought you were, like, a dentist or something."

"Well, actually," He replied, "I'm not a psychologist, I'm a psychiatrist."

"Oh. I didn't realize that those were different," She pointed to the restaurant, since it was a little difficult to spot if you didn't know where to look, "This is it."

They went inside, and Theodora was surprised to see that both tables were occupied. She didn't recognize either party, but she'd never seen it before. It was probably considered the lunch rush.

"Back so soon?" The server smiled, "I guess you want to try one of those hotdogs?"

"Actually…" She began, intending to explain that all she needed was a small replacement smoothie.

"A couple of hot dogs would be good," Dr. Hopper interrupted her cheerfully, "We could eat them in the park."

"Great!" Said the server.

And the next thing she knew, Theodora was sitting on the same park bench she had left in tears a month before, with the same man who had upset her. They had tofurky dogs and smoothies. It was all vaguely uncomfortable.

This was abated somewhat when Dr. Hopper took a bite into his hot dog and made a face of sudden and absolute disgust.

"This doesn't taste right." He observed, with concern.

"It's vegan. And there's no flour in the bun," Theodora explained, "I tried to warn you, but you bought them before I could say anything."

"So, are you a vegan?" He asked conversationally, looking around for the nearest garbage can.

"Not at all. I just go there for the smoothies," She shook her head and laughed, "The food is made with love, and really gross ingredients."

"I noticed that."

"Hey," Theodora said, thinking a change of subject would probably be good, "My friends and I watched you get pulled out of the old mine. I was really worried that something was going to happen to you and that little boy. You were pretty brave to go in after him."

"That's what everybody keeps talking to me about," He nodded, "And thank you for the compliment, but it really wasn't bravery. I was terrified. And I yelled at Henry."

"I'm surprised they don't teach psychiatrists more about bravery," She replied, "It isn't about not being frightened, it's about doing the right thing even though you _are_ frightened. People who never get scared can never understand bravery. And protecting children has nothing to do with being polite to them. Yelling can be an important part of the process." Theodora said the last part with the authority of someone who had known Mason Ringer.

Dr. Hopper looked at her for a moment, and then asked:

"Has anyone ever told you that you kind of talk like an after school special?"

"_I _talk like an after school special?" She scoffed, "And you don't?"

* * *

><p><em>AN: Shout-out to quoththeraven5 for all of the reviews, and to Time and Fate for always reviewing! And of course, to the greatly adored silent readers who put this story on alert and their favorite lists. I appreciate it more than I can say. ^_^_


	14. Now the Trees Seem Empty

It was a strange thing.

Glass, almost but not quite, and thick - a shard of something broken. It had gold filigree of some kind, with a heavy patina that made it look like a tree branch. Will had said, when he showed it to the others, that he felt there was more to be found within the mine. But it was sealed off, and he would have never been able to reach it without help. Now it was lost beneath the fresh cement, but he had at least been able to save this.

It glowed sometimes. Govinda said it was a trick of the light, something to do with how the glass was cut; but his voice wavered even as he said it.

The promise that had called them all out to the mine, the idea that they'd find clarity when they found the object, turned out to be false. They didn't know anything more than what they had when they started. Except that they all had some kind of shared madness, and that they most definitely had to keep the mysterious shard of glass.

Like many things among them, it was unspoken and understood that the mayor would try to destroy it. So it had to be hidden.

Mason was the one who figured out where to keep it.

Ada was a collector of lovely things. Her bedroom vanity was draped in glass beads, covered and stacked bracelets and enamel music boxes. She keep a row of delicate and strangely shaped perfume bottles, with fragrances she'd never wear, lined up all along the window sill. And it was among these bottles that Mason carefully placed the piece of glass. He knew that it was too pretty for her to throw away, and he hoped that it would be awhile before she noticed it.

"There should be a conference," Govinda decided a week after the object had been found, "We need to tell the women what we've discovered, and see if they know something we don't."

He was getting a coffee at Granny's diner and talking with Whitaker, who was delivering a few boxes of paper napkins and take-out cups. It was the best kind of delivery to make, since it weighed next to nothing. But Whitaker was getting frustrated, because he couldn't seem to capture Ruby's attention long enough to get her to sign the clipboard.

"I wouldn't be surprised if they did," Whitaker replied, "But at the same time, I've never known either of them to talk about any… strangeness that they've felt. They listen when _we_ talk about it."

"They do that to be sympathetic, since they know nobody else would listen to you," Govinda explained, "Trust me, they're both just as unbalanced as the rest of us. Theodora's shoe obsession? The time she stared at a scarecrow for five hours? The whole… you know what? everything about Ada is insane. Totally insane. No question."

Ruby breezed past, not paying any mind to either of them, with a couple of plates on her arms. She looked, as she always seemed to look to the two fellows, vaguely annoyed and resentful.

"Excuse me…?" Whitaker tried to place the clipboard where she could see it, but she was ignoring him. It wasn't clear if it was on purpose or by accident.

Govinda narrowed his eyes and watched her go past, taking on that masterfully intimidating I-don't-want-to-be-nice expression he wore from time to time. For some reason, it never seemed to phase the notoriously apathetic Ruby, but it was worth trying.

"Miss," He said, without raising his voice but with a noticeable sharpness, "Sign the courier's clipboard, and get my coffee to go. Now."

She smiled a very inauthentic smile at him, signed for the delivery without looking at Whitaker or the form, and made her way behind the counter and over to the espresso machine.

"I only come here because Storybrooke is, somehow, the only town in the United States of America that does not have a Starbucks. Or a Dunkin' Donuts." He grumbled to his friend.

"I absolutely cannot picture you in a Dunkin' Donuts," Whitaker observed, "The commercials make it look like the safe haven of the blue collar worker. They might kick you out for seeming so…"

"So what?"

"Imperious, of course." Whitaker said, as a strange knee-jerk reaction. What he had originally meant was _elitist_, but saying something like that was a good way to find yourself suddenly murdered.

"You're telling me that I'm unwelcome in every-man coffee shops?" Govinda raised an eyebrow.

"Well, you don't exactly get the best service _here_."

"That's because the waitress hates me." Govinda said, and there was no doubt that Ruby overheard the last part of this exchange. She was handing him his coffee while he said it.

"I don't hate anybody," She replied in a way that made it very obvious she was lying, "Sometimes there's a morning rush, and I forget orders. It happens. Feel free to leave a tip."

Govinda pulled his wallet out of his back pocket, and unfolded it. He extracted a single nickel, and placed it in the almost empty jar next to the cash register. It made a ringing noise as it landed, and spun a little on its side.

"Have a nice day." Ruby said coldly.

The tension between them was strangely competitive, as though the town was not big enough for the both of them. It made Whitaker think of two sharks trying to hunt in the same part of the ocean, as though there weren't enough fish for both of them. Except, with sharks, there was a chance they might not notice each other. Govinda and Ruby were completely aware of one another, and they were emphatically _not_ going to share fish. Or be tolerant of the other's presence.

Whitaker hurried out of the diner, hoping to avoid any scenario where they competed to see who could break his neck the fastest. He had never mentioned it to anyone, but for all the talk of Govinda's strange eyes, something about Ruby's own gaze was comparable. A colourless quality, a sharpness.

They were hunter's eyes.

Govinda loped along behind Whitaker, never suspecting anything of what was going on in his friend's head, and looking quite pleased with himself.

"I think I'm going to have to take up Theodora's boycott." He announced, popping open the lid on his drink. The coffee was about a full inch from the rim, but there didn't seem to be any spit in it. Small mercy on Ruby's part.

"Or you could ask Mr. Gold to fund our very first franchise coffee house," Whitaker suggested, climbing into his van, "Maybe it would be a nice change, giving up law to become a barista."

"That reminds me, our hearing is next Wednesday. Ten thirty. Wear a suit."

"What hearing?"

"For the car accident. The lawsuit," Govinda shook his head annoyed, "It wouldn't kill you to pay attention to these things."

Whitaker nodded, started his van, waved goodbye, and headed off down the street. Govinda watched him go for a little while, pleased that they'd had such an easy conversation that morning. It had always hurt his feelings that Whitaker found him so frightening, since he generally held that the two of them had the most in common out of their group. It was an odd instinct, but true. And yes, sometimes he thought about how easy it would be to kill him, but he did that with everybody.

He sipped his coffee. It was burnt, only slightly, like a certain someone had stamped the ground coffee too tightly on purpose.

His phone rang.

"Govinda Jadhav."

"Hey, it's me," Theodora said, in the way she always did when there was something wrong, "Are you near the school?"

"Why?" Govinda half groaned, "What's Mason done now?"

"Oh, no. It's nothing like that," She said, sounding very sad, "It's just, I have some difficult news. We got a report from the hospital, and last night Sheriff Graham had a heart attack. It was very sudden."

"Is he alright?"

"He, um… he didn't make it," Theodora's voice cracked a little, "They did what they could. The report says that he had an undiagnosed condition, and that an attack was only a matter of time. Anyway, I thought you should be told. I already called Ada. I don't know what you want to do, but you should figure it out before we print tomorrow's paper."

"Thanks. I appreciate this." He replied, and hung up.

He stood for another moment, alone on the quiet street corner, wondering if he ought to tell the boy right away, or wait until school was out.

It was a strange thing, the loss of a valued enemy.

The boy would likely have, for some time to come, a void in his activities. An idea of a something that should be done but now could not, for whatever new sheriff or rival would not understand it. A strange sense of remorse, for things left unsaid. Sadness that the last battle was one so trivial, and that he had not been there at the end.

There would be mourning, and grief, and sorrow. But the boy would keep them like secrets, since his bravado would never allow him to admit the loss.

Govinda sighed, and started towards the school. He should be told by someone who might understand.

When he arrived, he knocked on Miss Blanchard's classroom door, but a substitute answered. She was a mousy thing who didn't know him at all, and gave him a blank expectant look.

"I need to have a talk with Mason Ringer." He told her quietly.

"And who are you?" She asked.

At his desk, Mason looked up from the drawing he was doing instead of his class work, and watched with puzzlement as Govinda seemed to be trying to explain something complicated to the substitute.

He looked worried.

Mason became offended that he was being kept out of the conversation.

"Hi, Govinda!" He called, and waved.

Govinda waved back, and flashed the substitute teacher a discrediting raised eyebrow.

"Mason, you're mother's… friend needs to talk to you. You may be excused." The substitute said, still seeming a little unsure of things.

Mason shrugged and went out into the hallway

"What's up?" He asked brightly, looking suddenly very young and small to Govinda. Too small to be told something like this.

"To lose a nemesis is to lose part of yourself," He said, kneeling down and placing a hand on the boy's shoulder, "No one will ever be as equal to you, and no one will ever see your accomplishments the same way. It's not an easy thing."

"What happened?" Mason asked nervously.

There was no point in dancing around it.

"The sheriff has died. He suffered a heart attack."

Govinda thought that it was best to get the news over with quickly, make the strike fast and clean. But as he watched the boy step back from him, shaking his head in denial, he knew that he'd made a mistake.

"No! You're lying!" Mason cried, shoving Govinda's arm away, "The sheriff's tough and strong! He's a good fighter! He wouldn't die of a _heart attack_!"

"Mason…"

"Only old people get heart attacks!"

"That's not true, Mason."

"You're trying to trick me! I don't know why, but it's not going to work!" Mason thrust his leg out and kicked Govinda in the stomach, then started running for the stairwell. He could feel hot tears on his cheeks, and he wiped them on the back of his sleeve.

"Mason!" Govinda called, the footsteps already sounding behind him.

But Govinda didn't know the school like Mason did - the boy had every secret short cut, every hiding place, and every way out memorized. As soon as that stairwell door closed behind him, it was like he was invisible. Using one trick after another to break out of the school unseen and uncaught.

He ran across the athletics field, beneath the branches of the bare chestnut trees, and onto the side streets. Ducking along behind houses, hurrying through back yards and alleys, he was making his way without the slightest chance of being seen from the street. Govinda would think he was going home, to the forest, or perhaps to the sheriff's office.

Mason knew he'd never guess his actual destination, but all the same he wanted to be avoid being stopped.

He ran for quite a long time. When he at last got to the tall, cream-walled building, he crouched behind one of the bushes in the front garden. He realized that he would not know exactly where to go once he was inside, so he formulated his plan. First, he waited by the front window until the woman in the reception area got up and left. Then he pushed through the revolving door and went straight to the stairwell. It was a bit chancy, but he figured it safer than waiting for the elevator.

As quietly as he could, he made his way to the third floor, and opened the heavy metal door that led there. He peered around cautiously, and when he was certain there were no grown-ups to be seen, he wove between the furniture and turned the corner until he came to the room he wanted.

Oren was in his hospital bed, his eyes softly closed and his stuffed donkey beside him.

"Pssst…" Mason whispered, afraid to shake him awake, "Pssst, Oren! I need your help!"

"Mason?" The little boy said sleepily, "Why are you here?"

"I need to check something," Mason explained, "Do you know where they put the dead people?"

"Um…" Oren thought for a moment, trying to remember if he'd heard any of the nurses talking about it too close to his door, "I think they put them in the basement. In drawers."

"Why in drawers?"

"I don't know," Oren shook his head slightly, "What are you looking for?"

"I can't tell you now. If I get caught, I'll be in big trouble. I'll come see you again soon."

"Okay."

Mason ducked out of the room, and headed back down the hallway. He froze when he heard two voices, women, talking about something to do with medication rounds. Quickly, he changed directions and went towards the other end of the hall. There he found another emergency stairwell, and was pleased.

He went down past the first level, and came across a door marked _Basement. _But there was another door right across from it. Curious, Mason opened it and found nothing more than a second set of stairs that went down yet another level.

Stumped, he closed the door and thought for a moment.

This hospital had two basements. He wasn't sure why, but it did. The morgue could be in either one, and every moment he spent there increased his chances of being caught. Was it more likely for it to be in the first basement or the second? The second seemed most likely, since he couldn't imagine what else it could be for. They wouldn't keep sick people down there, since there weren't any windows. But maybe that was where they kept the extra blankets and pillows or something.

In the end, he decided to see what was on the first basement floor - then, if he did not find what he was looking for, he would check the second.

As he crept along, he found himself certain that he'd made the wrong choice. This floor looked like the one where they kept extra supplies, and the janitorial carts. But he stuck with his decision, and in the end it paid off. On exactly the other side of the building, across from the elevator shaft, was a set of large shiny metal doors. Mason swallowed hard, and pushed through them.

The room looked like it was full of cupboards, not drawers, but he wouldn't dream of faulting his friend for the misunderstanding. All of the little doors were closed.

There was a metal table, a scale with a white face, a tray of instruments, and all kinds of other things that Mason didn't understand the purpose of. But other than that, the room was empty.

He felt cold, standing in there alone.

The idea of anyone being shut up in one of the cupboards made him cry a little more, only this time he didn't push the tears back. With a mixture of determination and defiance, he began opening the cupboards and looking inside.

He would believe that Sheriff Graham was dead when he saw his body, and not one second before.

Door after door he pulled open, never shutting them again for fear he would lose track of which one's he'd checked. But they were all empty.

He opened them with more and more frenzy, letting the doors slam against one another with a clatter. He didn't hear the footsteps in the hall, and didn't see the burly orderly in green scrubs come into the room.

"Hey, kid!" The orderly demanded, "What the hell are you doing?"

Mason didn't answer him, he just kept opening the mortuary refrigerators. One after another, all empty.

"Kid, stop it." The orderly said, a little softer, realizing that something was wrong.

"It's not true…" Mason said, standing among all of the open doors, "He's not here, so it's not true."

"Who's not here?"

"My friend."


	15. Lost Boy Logic

It was lunch hour on a very rainy day, and an inside activity had been set up in the cafeteria, but Mason Ringer wasn't anywhere near it. He didn't care what he was missing - probably making pencil holders or macaroni pictures - but he knew that he'd have to get back to school before the warning bell. And if anyone asked where he'd been, he'd say he was drawing in the library. Nobody kept track of who was in the library on rainy days.

He hurried along the wet grass, trying not to look at the names and phrases on the flat grey stones around him, until he came to the one he wanted.

Sheriff Graham's grave marker.

With great determination, Mason brought a slingshot out of his jack pocket. It was one of his very best, with a wooden handle and gum rubber bands. Carefully, he placed it on the wet grass, next to a vase of flowers somebody had left. Out of his other pocket, he took a handful of polished red chestnuts; the nicest ones he'd found during the autumn months. There were eight in total, and he lined them up neatly next to the slingshot.

"I believe in you," He whispered, "I believe."

There was a shuffle of sound behind him, and a young voice asked:

"What are you doing?"

Mason turned around and found himself face to face with Henry Mills.

"What are _you_ doing?" He demanded.

"I followed you," Henry shrugged, "I wanted to find out where you were going."

"So now you know," Mason said, trying to sound tough, "So what are you going to do about it?"

"Nothing," Henry shrugged, "I was just trying to figure something out."

"Did you?"

"Not really. Why did you put your slingshot there?"

Mason hesitated, uncertain of whether to trust Henry with such a delicate secret. Then again, it's wasn't like a lot of the other kids talked to him, so even if he knew, who could he tell?

"Come on," He started to lead him away from the cemetery, "We have to get back to school. I'll tell you about it on the way, _if_ you promise to say we were playing together in the library if a grown-up asks where we were."

"Okay," Henry agreed, following along, "But I don't think they'll believe that."

"They'll believe it, because you said it. And you don't lie." Mason said, sliding a little to get down the hill that led to the sidewalk.

"I lie all the time," Henry informed him, "I never tell the evil… um, my mom where I'm going."

"Sure, but the grown-ups don't _think_ you lie." Mason replied, ignoring the suggestion that the other boy viewed his own mother as evil. It wasn't too surprising, since half the town hated her guts.

They walked for a little while, both of them nervously glancing at the drivers of the cars that passed them, but they didn't come across anybody who really knew them. Which was good, Mason decided, since people would just assume he was being a bad influence. Poor Henry. Mason told him it would be fun to leave the school grounds in the rain, and now he has a cold. Boo hoo.

"So what were you doing?" Henry asked, a little shyly.

"I was giving Sheriff Graham something he could use to protect himself," Mason explained, "I don't know where he is, or what supplies he might need. But a slingshot is always handy."

"How could he use a slingshot? He's dead."

"Henry, I know that you're a troubled kid, and that I'm supposed to be extra nice to you. But if you say that again, I'm going to have to punch you in the face."

Henry just looked resigned to not understanding.

Mason was not inclined to explain his theories, which were chiefly that Sheriff Graham was not actually dead; that believing him to be dead would kill him; and that every time somebody said that he was dead out loud, it made things much worse.

He kept it all to himself, because the last time he had presented these notions, things had not gone well.

His neighbours had all been sitting in the living room with Ada, who was in the big armchair next to the window. Even Govinda had been allowed to come over, which surprised Mason. Govinda had been fighting with Ada at a pretty-much non-stop rate since they'd gone to fetch him from hospital security.

They hadn't seen him, dressed in his pyjamas and crouched by the wall in the hallway, but he could hear them.

"How is he?" Will Meade had been the first to speak. Mason understood that this meant the situation was troubling, but not yet deemed a crisis.

"Still not talking." Ada replied.

Mason had not felt inclined to explain his actions since being brought home, and he certainly did not feel inclined to discuss Sheriff Graham with them. Not even Ada.

"I'm afraid I don't quite understand," Whitaker had said, sounding very glum, "I thought that he and the sheriff didn't get along. Does Mason feel guilty about their play-fights?"

"No, it's not that," Ada said, "He has trouble with loss, and he's just going to miss Sheriff Graham. They had a really specific relationship, and it's not the kind of thing anybody can replace. It's difficult for a child to process that kind of stuff."

"When he starts being more active again," Will said, "I can have swordfights with him, and a few things like that. If you think it might help with the transition. I know I'm not his first choice, but he does say that we're natural enemies."

This had caused the eavesdropper to wrinkle up his face in displeasure. Will was very different from Sheriff Graham. He was very much a grown-up, on purpose, with an excess of refinement and a cold distance from the mind of childhood. Sheriff Graham had always seemed to Mason like he had once upon a time been a boy - and not just any boy, but a wild boy like Mason himself. Running through forests with no shoes on, climbing up into trees, stalking the birds. And in the end, because it happens to those who can't fight it, Graham grew up. He became one of the enemies, but remained in many ways an ally.

Mason couldn't explain it very well, but to him it was really about respect.

"That might be a good place to start," Ada said to Will, "Thank you."

There was a quiet moment then, and Mason worried if he should creep back upstairs before everybody started to leave. But then the conversation started again, this time in a new direction.

"I don't suppose anybody at the paper knows who's going to be appointed in Graham's place?" Will said.

"Actually," Theodora replied, "We were looking it all up yesterday. The job goes to deputy Swan, unless Mayor Mills picks somebody else for the position in the next two days. And Sidney says he doesn't think she has anybody in mind, so…"

"Deputy Swan seems alright." Will said.

"I don't like her," Ada's voice was angry, "You know why she stayed in town? To take her son back from Regina Mills. And that was a closed adoption, by the way."

"She was raised in the foster system," Theodora said, "Maybe she regrets her decision to be _completely_ absent from her son's life…"

"That's exactly my point. Mayor Mills was her son's best option, until what? Until she suddenly decided it was okay to include herself in his life? What the hell is that?"

"People are allowed to change. Maybe she doesn't want to take him back, maybe she just wants to be with him while he grows up," Theodora sighed, "We should try not to be judgmental."

"It just makes me uneasy." Ada said quietly.

"On the other hand," Govinda said, very carefully, as though he was aware that he was not entirely welcome to speak, "She doesn't seem to be in the mayor's pocket. Or her bed. Which makes her a substantial improvement over Graham, not to speak ill of the dead."

This was what caused Mason to step forward from his hiding place, and walk into the full view of everyone present.

"Mason!" Ada smiled.

"How long were you back there?" Whitaker asked, more with curiosity than any sort of worry.

"Can I get you anything?" Ada asked, "Are you hungry?"

"A glass of juice." He mumbled.

Ada passed by him into the kitchen, pausing to lightly brush his hair off his forehead.

"You should all know something," He began carefully, "It's that Sheriff Graham isn't really dead. He's just in trouble, and if you say he's dead or that you don't believe he'll be alright, then he won't be. You'll kill him. You have to believe, okay? I know it's hard for you, because you're grown-ups, but you have to."

When Ada handed him a glass of orange juice, she smiled wistfully and put her hand on his shoulder.

"Mason…" Will said slowly, like he wanted to say something but didn't know what it was.

"We all wish that Sheriff Graham was still here…" Theodora began.

"Good!" Mason pointed at her, "You're a good wisher! You're the best wisher I know, so you have to promise to keep wishing. Okay?"

"Okay." She said sincerely.

This caused Govinda to suddenly sit straight up, as though someone had poured cold water down his back. He looked between the faces of the two women in the room, seeming very unhappy with both of them.

"No," He said firmly, "That is not right. Mason, he is dead. Sheriff Graham is dead, and he's not coming back. It's very sad, and very difficult to accept. But you must _accept_ it."

There was a fragile moment of silence, that lasted only a second or two but seemed to have a hundred years inside of it.

Then, Mason began to tremble slightly. He was so angry, he felt like he couldn't contain it inside of him, even if he tried.

Without any conscious intention of it, he threw his full juice glass at Govinda's head. Govinda dodged it sharply, so that it smashed in a liquid explosion on the wall behind him. His eyes were burning with rage, but he stayed calmly and quietly seated exactly where he was.

Nobody else moved, except to gasp or flinch when the glass hit the wall.

Then the yelling had started.

And that was the last time Mason had spoken aloud about his theories regarding the sheriff's current predicament. He certainly had no intention of mentioning them to Henry Mills, who was often lauded for his intelligence. Grown-ups viewed intelligence as an inability to accept the impossible.

Mason didn't actually know Henry very well at all.

"Do you like animals?" Henry asked, as they walked along the downtown sidewalks.

"Huh?" Mason snapped out of his thoughts, "They're okay, I guess."

"But you don't follow them around or anything?"

"No. Why, do you?"

"No." Henry said, and looked like he was considering something.

"That was a weird question." Mason informed him, trying to be helpful.

"I told you, I'm trying to figure something out," Henry shrugged, "Do you have a brother? Or two?"

"Nope," Mason replied, "What are you trying to figure out?"

"It's not important. You draw a lot, do you draw cats?"

"Not especially. Mostly battles," Mason then decided to be benevolent, "I could teach you to draw, if you want. It's pretty easy, once you know what to practice."

"No thanks," Henry said, "How about bears?"

"What about them?"

"Anything I guess. When I say bears, what do you think?"

"Dunno," Mason replied, "I hear they maul people sometimes, but I'm not scared of them. Other than that, I don't really have much to do with them."

Henry nodded, and Mason nodded too. Both in a way that suggested that this sentiment was the fairly universal response to 'How 'Bout Them Bears?' as asked by any party.

Mason remained confused but not offended by the conversation.

And Henry, for the life of him, still could not figure out who Mason _was._

* * *

><p><em>AN: First of all, thank you so much for reading! I hope you've enjoyed everything so far! Second, if you watched tonight's episode (1x17) you might have guessed that I'm kind of in a little bind now. Thanks, Mad Hatter episode! It messed up a few things for premise (which are pretty easy to overlook,) but it also screwed up a few future plot lines. Mostly the ones with Whitaker, but the one with the piece of the glass coffin as well. _

_So! If you could throw some wild speculation my way, that would be great. What do you think should happen? Are you still interested in the Alice in Wonderland stuff? Am I completely screwed now? All comments are appreciated! ^_^_

_I'll also be taking a break from my daily update schedule while I figure this out..._


	16. Lions and Crocodiles, Crickets and Girls

_A/N: Alright, you guys sold me. We're going to go off the rails after Heart of Darkness, which is exciting and scary for me because I structured everything around canon, but nothing ventured nothing gained. Right? _Right_? ^_^_

_Sadly, this is the last chapter you're getting for awhile, because on Tuesday I managed to break two fingers on my right hand while playing basketball. (**Never** go outside.) In my case, this is a huge deal for long and boring reasons I won't go into here. The short version is that _all_ of my work is on hiatus for probably two weeks, and if you like this chapter you have to thank my boyfriend for typing it out. All grammar mistakes are his._

* * *

><p>Theodora Brees was in the toy store on Main Street, looking around the little section of board games that were stacked on top of one another next to the window. It was a grey afternoon, with heavy clouds in the sky, but it had stopped raining. For awhile, at least.<p>

In the window display was a selection of plush hand puppets, all different kinds of wild animals in bright cartoon colours. There was a crocodile, a monkey, a zebra, a parrot, a giraffe, and a lion that Theodora particularly liked. It's little eyebrows were placed on it kind of awkwardly, so that an expression that was no doubt meant to convey ferocity instead just made the puppet look deeply concerned about what was going to happen next.

_Yep_, Theodora thought as soon as she saw it, _that's a lion_.

The store was very quiet, since it was the middle of the school day, but there were still a few other customers. An older man looking at train models, and a working mom trying to pick out three fashion dolls of equal impressiveness but distinct style. Theodora had overheard the woman explaining to the sales clerk that her triplets were having a birthday party. She didn't envy anybody who had to shop for that.

There was a knock on the glass of the window beside her, and she looked up to see Dr. Hopper standing on the sidewalk with a smile on his face. She waved at him cheerfully. He made a motion towards the door, as if to ask if it was alright for him to come inside and talk to her.

She smiled and nodded.

"Hi!" He said, closing the door carefully behind him, while the little golden bell attached to it jingled.

"Hi," She replied, "I'm actually really glad to bump into you. If you don't mind, I need to ask for a quick professional opinion."

"Uh-oh." He chuckled, coming to stand next to her, so they could keep their voices low.

"It's not about me," She shook her head, "It's about a friend."

"That's what everybody says."

"Oh, I guess it is," She laughed, "But this time it's true. Do you remember my blonde friend who works at the arcade?"

He nodded, tactfully not mentioning how Ada went out of her way to stand out as much as she could.

"Well, her son was very fond of Sheriff Graham, they used to play, and he kind of looked up to him. Anyway, he's not taking the loss very well. I don't think it's unhealthy or anything, but I have to watch him tonight, and I was trying to find a… constructive activity."

Dr. Hopper stuck his hands in his pockets and thought for a moment, looking at the titles of various board games while he did. He hadn't been aware there was one called _Zombies!_

"How old is he?"

"Ten, I think."

He nodded.

"Usually he's very active," Theodora added, "We play Backyard War a lot, when the weather's good. But he's been really subdued lately, and I don't want to make him feel like I'm forcing him to have fun."

"That's the right idea," He told her, "But you don't want him to feel like you're forcing him to do something he usually finds boring, either. It's about getting him to readjust to his usual routines, without him feeling guilty about it. And without anyone feeling rushed."

"That sounds… impossible." She sighed and shook her head, looking a little more concerned than she meant to.

She'd left out the part where she was only babysitting because Govinda had completely shredded the thin strands of goodwill that were holding his relationship with Ada together. At this point, the two of them were operating on a barely functional truce. Govinda was taking the boy to and from school as usual, with no comment on the death of Sheriff Graham. Ada was looking after him as she'd always done, also with no comment on the death of Sheriff Graham.

Often, they would shout at one another so loudly that everyone else on the street could hear them.

Ada had a late shift at work, but was no longer willing to let Govinda look after Mason for a whole evening. And Mason hated Will at the moment, and Whitaker would be ridiculously uncomfortable looking after a grief-stricken and outburst-prone child, so Theodora had been asked to do it.

But she was still keenly aware that if she paid too much attention to Mason, Ada would think that her parenting style was being criticized. A physical fight would be the most likely result, and Theodora was pretty sure that Ada could kick her ass.

It was, at that moment, all a terrible mess.

"Do the normal indoor activities that he likes," Dr. Hopper suggested, "Let him guide things and choose what he wants to do. If you still feel like buying him a present, you can get him something he can use to help express himself. But don't expect him to use it right away if he's not comfortable yet."

"He draws a lot." Theodora said, thinking about the options she now had.

"Drawing is good," Dr. Hopper nodded, looking around the store for other ideas. He smiled and grabbed the zebra puppet from the window display, "Something like this, too. Where he can use imagination play to explore some more complex emotional concepts. He's also still at the age where a stuffed toy feels like a new friend. Somebody he can confide secrets in."

"Oh, perfect!" Theodora smiled, and stuck her head into the box of the window to get a better look at what animals they had.

Dr. Hopper handed her the zebra to put back.

She emerged with the lion and the crocodile, sizing them up against one another, trying to decide which would be the best.

"I guess that means you're busy tonight?" He asked her, and the old man looking at toy trains raised his eyebrows at them. Only Dr. Hopper saw it, and he quickly cleared his throat, "I'm moderating the debate at city hall, and I want all the conscientious voters to be there. That's why I was asking."

"That's tonight?" Theodora seemed disappointed, "Everybody from work was supposed to go to that. Shoot, I'm really sorry to miss it. I bet you're going to do a great job."

"So you're probably voting for Sidney…"

There was a pause, while she bit the corner of her lip and thought about whether she should lie to be polite. In the end, she decided that it would probably be better if she told the truth. She'd just feel guilty otherwise.

"Would I look really disloyal if I said no?" Theodora whispered, "It's nothing bad. He's a terrific person, and I really do like him a lot. Socially. But, having worked for him, I don't think he's the right fit for sheriff. Nobody at the Mirror knows why he's even running, he didn't seem interested in it at all until five minutes ago. And he _loves_ being editor-in-chief, the Mirror is his _world_."

Dr. Hopper tried not to look as pleased with this answer as he was. As a good moderator, he wasn't supposed to favour either candidate, but he was really hoping that Emma would win.

Theodora looked again at the two jungle puppets in her hands.

"I should get the crocodile," She decided, "He'd like the crocodile. _I_ would like the lion, but it's not about me…"

"You like the lion?" Dr. Hopper looked pleasantly surprised, "He looks like he just lost his savings in the stock market."

"First of all, lions are notoriously terrible investors," Theodora said earnestly, "And I think his expression makes him relatable. It's like: You think _you've_ got problems? I'm a lion who's afraid of gazelles..."

"You got me," Dr. Hopper announced, "I'm sold."

He held his hand out for the plush and worried-looking little thing, and she turned it over to him with a curious expression.

"I think my younger patients could benefit from having a relatable lion at the office." He explained.

"Well, that sticks me with the crocodile, then," Theodora smiled.

She took a quick, uncertain kind of breath; and looked at his face a little longer than she'd intended to before she spoke. All of a sudden, she had decided that he would make a very valuable friend. Like somehow she could see into the future, and in that future Dr. Hopper was on her side - and that it would matter a great deal that he was.

It was funny. He also _reminded_ her of something that she liked very much, a sort of personality trait she wasn't quite sure how to define. A type of goodness, maybe, that made her feel at ease. But how could he remind her of something she didn't remember? She couldn't recall any people who were like him, and yet she felt certain that she had known some.

The whole epiphany was a very nice surprise to her, given the rocky way things had gone between them so far.

"Thank you so much for your help," She said softly, since she found herself a little embarrassed for staring, "I certainly appreciate it."

"It's nothing." He smiled back, modestly, and they made their way over to the check-out counter.

The cashier rang up the crocodile, and while Theodora was paying for it, she glanced up at a wooden cuckoo clock on the wall.

"Is that really the time?" She gasped, "I'd better get back to the Mirror!"

"Hey, before you go," Dr. Hopper said, "If your friend's son needs to set up an appointment, I'd be happy to help. It wouldn't have to be a regular thing, sometimes just having one session is useful."

He pulled one of his business cards out of his pocket.

"You can call anytime," He told her, and then had an idea. He grabbed a pencil from next to the cash register and scribbled something on the back of the card, "This is my personal cell phone number. In case I'm not in the office when you call."

"Thanks!" Theodora replied in cheerful distraction. She grabbed the card and the little bag with her purchase in it, and the hurried onto the street, waving goodbye through the window as she headed back to the Daily Mirror.

Now alone in the toy store, Dr. Hopper noticed that everyone - the nosy old man, the working mother, and the sales clerk - were all giving him that raised-eyebrows look.

"It was my _business_ card!"

When Theodora finally made it back to work, she scrambled into the office to find the bullpen pretty well empty. All of her colleagues were heading towards the seldom used conference room; so she threw the bag from the toy store and her coat onto the chair at her desk, and followed along behind them. She hoped it was the right thing to do. And that nobody had noticed how late she was coming back from lunch.

The conference room was decorated with a banner that read _Good Luck_ and had four-leaf clovers all over it. There was also a cake, and a selection of soft drinks. People who worked in different departments, on the first and second floors, were also there. Probably because they'd heard about the cake.

Usually when the office had a party like this, they passed around a collection to raise funds for it. Whoever was in charge had a list of who had chipped in and who hadn't, and somebody usually hassled you until you went from being on the latter list to being on the former. But Theodora couldn't recall anyone talking about a party for Sidney.

Which meant that he had probably organized it himself, using whatever was in the petty cash fund.

Sidney Glass was throwing a surprise party. For himself.

Theodora felt very sad.

"Alright, everybody!" Sidney said, quieting the murmurs of speculation, "Tonight's a big night for me, and I'm hoping that you'll all come out to support me at the debate, and then with your votes. If I get elected, I'll be leaving the Mirror…"

He stopped for a moment, glanced down at his shoes and cleared his throat.

"This place has been my home for a long time. It's been my life for… I don't know how many years. I think I've lost count. More than I should probably say," He smiled wistfully, "We've had ups and downs, good stories and bad stories, and stories that have changed lives. The people in this room probably understand Storybrooke better than anybody else, and I've been proud to be your editor. Proud to have covered the crime beat all of these years too, since none of you were ever interested in the dark glamour of murders or assaults."

A few people chuckled. Up until what seemed like the last few months, covering the sheriff's office had been as interesting as watching paint dry. Mostly it was write-ups on fund allocation. Sidney had been an absolute pro at it.

"You're my family," He announced, "All of you. And, like a good family, sometimes we argue. Sometimes we argue a lot. But it matters to me that you _care_ enough to tell me exactly what's on your minds. So, if I happen to be elected, you'll just have to do your damnedest to give my replacement a hard time. Don't give that guy an inch, don't let him change a single comma in your articles, and if the public interest dictates that a fact or two be suppressed, you all go ahead and call him every single dirty name you called me. It'll let him know you care."

Everyone clapped, and there was a general feeling that nobody ought to give old Sidney a rough time for throwing himself a party.

It was turning out to be a very good idea.

Theodora treated herself to a very small piece of the cake, and found herself standing in the corner with two of the people from layout. She was very embarrassed that she couldn't remember their names, but the junior staff writers rarely mixed with the other departments.

"Do you guys know why he's running for sheriff?" The woman from layout asked, in a very snide kind of way.

"I suppose it's because he thinks he can do a good job of it." Theodora replied, very politely. Strangely, the journalists always took it upon themselves to defend Sidney when other people at the paper complained about him. It didn't make a lot of sense, since the journalists complained about him to one another all of the time.

"I heard it was because Regina Mills was cracking the whip…" The man from layout said, with an equally disparaging tone as his co-worker.

Theodora didn't like to make generalizations, but she had a habit of doing it anyway, and was beginning to decide that the people who worked in layout were kind of smug.

Everyone on the third floor knew, of course, that it was true. Sidney was only running because the mayor wanted to keep her claws in the sheriff's office. If he won, he was making a change in his life that clearly wasn't based on his own decision. If he lost, everyone would make fun of him. And the mayor would probably give him a hard time, which would have a really _wonderful _trickle down effect at the paper.

He was between a rock and a hard place, and gossiping about him wasn't going to help.

Theodora excused herself, and slipped along the wall to try and get past the bulk of the crowd. When she got to the door, she found Sidney by himself. Watching the people mingle with a mixture of pride and something more melancholy. He glanced at her as she made her way towards the door.

"Leaving early?" He asked.

"I have to go and vote," She explained, "I won't be able to this evening after the debate. So I thought I'd go submit my ballot early, with the senior citizens."

"You're not going to vote for me, are you?"

The way he asked it was almost amused, a sort of mock disappointment.

"I'm going to vote for Deputy Swan," Theodora told him, "I know you're probably sick of being chained to the Mirror, but we'd miss you if you left. The place wouldn't be the same without you."

As though something vulgar had caught his ear, he turned sharply towards her.

"What did you say?" He asked, looking a little concerned.

"I said I was voting for Deputy Swan," Theodora answered, worried that she'd hurt his feelings, "I was just trying to…"

Sidney waved off the explanation and whatever subsequent apology she was going to make.

"After that." He said.

"Um, I said that this place wouldn't be the same without you? We'd miss you if you were sheriff?"

"It was something else," He explained, and then shook his head as though the idea had slipped away from him, "Never mind. Go vote against me. I appreciate the support."


	17. Democracy in Action

Whitaker Lapin was terribly, terribly nervous.

It had been one of those days where everything had seemed so mixed up for him, he wanted to go home and lock the doors and windows. Just crawl into his bed, in a nest of blankets, and not move until he was absolutely sure that nobody outside remembered who he was. Maybe for the rest of winter. He could reappear in the spring.

That morning, he'd gone to the hearing with Govinda, and he'd stood there for three hours while the judge told him that they didn't have a case. Which seemed silly, because Govinda had very clearly prepared an excellent case. And all of the legal evidence was in their favour.

But things like legal evidence never mattered in Storybrooke. Particularly if you were trying to make a claim against the city - something no one had ever successfully done.

In the end, there had been a kind of stalemate. Govinda requested a new judge. Whitaker was certain that whoever they got next was going to be much worse. He also didn't care if they won or not, and would not have been inclined to come back and testify at all had Govinda not made the I-will-kill-you-and-nobody-will-stop-me face at him in the courtroom.

The entire ordeal had left him feeling anxious, but it hadn't been so bad. Then he'd gone to work, and even though he'd gotten permission to miss the morning, he still had to put up with the fact that all of the easy jobs had been signed onto by the other drivers. So he had to spend the afternoon delivering incredibly heavy things to very irate people.

"Come along to the debate," Will had suggested over the phone, "I'm sure it'll make you feel better about your life. After all, things could be worse. You could be running for sheriff."

Whitaker knew that the actual reason was because none of their other friends were going to be at the Town Hall, and Will hated going to events without someone to listen to his witticisms. But the witticisms were usually amusing, and he thought that it might help to distract him from how high-strung he'd been all day.

And then, he found himself sitting right beside Mr. Gold while Deputy Swan stood at the podium and told everyone about the bomb. The one that Mr. Gold had planted to give her an edge in the local elections.

He was sitting next to a man who _planted bombs_.

This alone would have been enough to cause a sharp rise in panic, but the fact of the matter was that Mr. Gold owned part of his house. Sort of. Whitaker lived on the plot of land closest to the highway, on the turn into Woodedge Road. Through some error of zoning or lack of correct building clearance or some other failure of bureaucracy, it turned out that a large piece of the forest that had been purchased by Mr. Gold overlapped the area of land where Whitaker's house had been built. But because of this strange zoning quirk, it worked out that Mr. Gold had a claim only to a sliver of the property, but that sliver lined up directly with one half of Whitaker's house.

If you took a paintbrush, and painted a line right through the middle of his living room, you could choose to stand on the side that Whitaker owned or the side that Whitaker rented.

So Whitaker was actually sitting next to his landlord.

Who planted bombs.

Mr. Gold himself had always brought to his tenant's mind a curious little poem, that he could never recall the origin of:

_How doth the little crocodile_

_Improve his shining tail,_

_And pour the waters of the Nile_

_On every golden scale!_

_How cheerfully he seems to grin,_

_How neatly spreads his claws,_

_And welcomes little fishes in_

_With gently smiling jaws!_

It was an odd verse, but it seemed to fit.

Presumably because he was tired of being publicly accused of arson, or because he'd become bored, Mr. Gold got up and left. And neither of the candidates running for sheriff, one of whom was still held the position of deputy, attempted to detain him. Despite the highly public charges.

"Do you want to go try a citizen's arrest?" Will whispered, "I hear they're quite manageable if you outnumber the suspect…"

When Whitaker's response to the attempt at humour was to look like he was going to faint, Will reconsidered his approach.

"Or we can sit here and try not to panic-vomit," He suggested with a nod, "Yes. Let's do that."

After her revelatory speech, Deputy Swan left the podium.

It didn't look like she was planning to return.

"So… is there not going to be a debate now?" A woman in the row behind them wondered.

"I guess it's just opening statements? Nobody's going to talk about policy?"

"Should we go vote? Or… does Sidney get to give his closing statement?"

The murmurs of confusion filled the town hall, and on the stage Dr. Hopper and Sidney Glass seemed equally at a loss for what should be done. In the thick of the conversations, as he started to feel less nervous and more like himself, Whitaker had one of his little epiphanies.

"I'm going to vote for her." He announced, quite clearly, so that everyone in his vicinity shot him questioning glances.

"Yes, I suppose I am, too." Will nodded.

"Even if there is a closing statement, I've heard all I need to hear. Yes, she made a mistake, but who hasn't? And she tried to make amends. And she's not afraid of Mr. Gold because she hasn't lived here long enough to know why she should be. That could be nice. A sheriff who doesn't care about town politics, but who cares about the law? Who uses moral discretion instead of the other kinds of discretion?" Whitaker went on, a few people he didn't know listening and nodding along, "My goodness gracious, I think that sounds rather refreshing!"

"Here, here, old boy!" Will stood up and straightened himself out, "To the ballot boxes! Before you change your mind!"

As Whitaker stood to go along with his friend, he looked through the crowd at the back of Regina's head. She seemed to be saying something to her son, and hadn't heard his little speech. For that, he was immensely relieved.

There was something about the woman that compelled Whitaker to fear her, in the way that he feared all imposing figures, but also to love her a tiny bit. Not in an infatuated way, or a passionate way, but in the way that comes about when you feel you understand the saddest thing about a person. He had a soft-spot for her, even when she was at her coldest, and even when he was most convinced that of all of the people who could kill him on a whim, she was the deadliest.

Of late, though, he had found himself mysteriously inclined to challenge her power. Something that was well beyond his normal comfort-zones. It was a _rebellious inclination_. The only one he'd ever really had.

But part of him had felt, ever since they fixed that old clock tower, that he needed to start moving. And he had also felt, with an equal suddenness, that it was his duty to help in the election of new city officials. For very strong reasons that were completely outside of his grasp. It all tied into his theories on harmless insanity, and the folie à plusieurs of the night they went to get the piece of glass from the mine.

A little madness kept a man balanced. A lot of madness, quite naturally, did the opposite.

"Remind me to tell Theodora that Dr. Hopper's joke fell completely flat," Will said as they made their way to the poling station in the next room, "She'll be pleased to hear it."

"Just because she doesn't like the man doesn't mean she'll revel in his failures…"

"Not _publicly_, no. But she'll get some satisfaction out of it, I'm sure."

"Are you registered?" Asked a disinterested young woman, sitting at one of the collapsible community event picnic tables. It had been covered in a table cloth that was probably from a Fourth of July a few years earlier. She had the list of voters, and next to her was the ballot box and a young man with white earphones in.

Small town politics and small town volunteers.

"William Meade. M-E-A-D-E." People had a strangely difficult time spelling his last name. They never seemed to be able to correctly guess how many E's there were or where the A might go, if it went anywhere at all.

"Whitaker Lapin. Whitaker is the first name. Lapin is the last."

"L-A-P?" The girl asked, scanning the list with her finger.

"That's right."

"Did Govinda vote yet? Do you know?" Will asked, recalling the last nightmare of having to stand there while Govinda spelled his name, and was asked what it meant and where he was from, only to find that the form had misspelled Jadhav to begin with. So he was forced to provide identification with proof of residency before they'd let him vote for members of the school board.

"I don't think he's bothering. Neither is Ada, of course. I suppose the one thing they can agree on right now is civic apathy," Whitaker shrugged, as he was handed his paper ballot and pointed to another table nearby. It had been separated into makeshift booths with cardboard partitions, and in between the partitions were cups with ballpoint pens in them, "Theodora voted this afternoon."

"Who for?" Will grinned.

Whitaker glanced around as other voters begin checking in at the registration table, and he lowered his voice, "Let's just say that for all of her grumbling, she isn't willing to see what a _new _editor-in-chief would be like."

"Thought so."

The ballot was simple. Printed in black and blue and grey. An explanation that the vote was to determine who would hold the office of sheriff until the next election, and so on and so on. Mark an X in the box beside the name of your candidate of choice. Do not mark an X on any other portion of the ballot, or the ballot is considered invalid.

Then the two names.

Sidney Glass.

Emma Swan.

Whitaker's hand trembled when he took the pen. This was it.

Will you, won't you? He asked himself. Oh, will you? Oh, won't you? Will you, won't you, will you, won't you take the chance?

He marked the X.

Then he carefully folded the piece of paper as instructed.

Without looking for Will, to see if he was still making up his mind or had gone to mingle with someone from the crowd, Whitaker took his completed ballot to the box. He showed it to the boy who was listening to music, as he was required to do, and submitted it.

It was done.

He had successfully cast his vote for Emma Swan, and he smiled as he walked away. It was the small battles, the things that were done by everyday people, that helped to win the wars.

"Stick to your guns?" Will asked, walking alongside him with his hands in his pockets.

"First time I've ever had any guns to stick to." Whitaker laughed, because he felt very light of heart.

"Not speaking strictly as your friend, just as an observer, there are times when it's very encouraging to know you."


End file.
